


Writer's Block

by Peetabreadgirl



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peetabreadgirl/pseuds/Peetabreadgirl
Summary: Katniss and Peeta get stuck working on a project and have to come together to get it done in time. All puns intended.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/gifts).



I stare at the outline I’ve created for my story and decide that I hate my life. I haven’t always, but it seems like fate keeps throwing wrecking balls at me and all my efforts to dodge them have been futile.

 

I was happy once. A carefree kid, but that was before my father died when I was sixteen. Before I had to work away my afternoons to help keep the electricity on and the cupboards from being empty. Before I missed out on the scholarship I needed to go to college without having to keep that full time job. I was hoping to cut my hours back to part time so I could concentrate on my studies, graduate at the top of my class and get the first job I put my resume in for.

 

But then Mr. Sunshine was awarded the money I’d worked so hard to get, and it felt like the last five years of my life was washed down the drain. I had given up my teenage rights - friends, parties, boys, fun - all for responsibility. And then, they gave _my_ scholarship away to Peeta fucking Mellark. Just thinking his name has me on edge. Had it been someone who actually needed it, I would have just been disappointed. Instead, I had to sit there, simmering in my own skin with a fake smile plastered across my face, and watch a rich kid - rich by my standards anyway - take what was rightfully mine. Let’s just say I haven’t quite gotten over it. We go to the same school and I try to avoid him at all costs, but we’ve crossed paths a few times. It hasn’t been pretty.

 

In hindsight, I know it’s not his fault that he won the damn thing. I mean, he didn’t award _himself_ the money, but his popularity, optimistic attitude, charm and boyish good looks always drew attention. Attention I desperately needed, but didn’t have a clue how to get. I was surly and small, and nonexistent in any extracurriculars because of my circumstances. I’ve always been bitter about it, and I’ve taken it out on him a couple times around campus. I guess he decided I wasn’t worth his smiles and kindness because he started giving back as good I gave, then avoiding me altogether. Which was fine by me. If I didn’t have to see him, then I didn’t have to deal with my feelings.

 

Ignorantly, I had thought things were looking up for a bit. My sister was awarded a full ride at the university in Capitol City a few hours away, and my mother had been promoted at her job, which came with a raise. A small one, but a raise nonetheless. And, I’m about to graduate. It’s been four years and I’ve managed to keep my need for student loans to a minimum. By my calculations I should have my debts paid off in a year’s time, and with no sister or mother to support, I can start saving for my future. Hopefully, I will never have to be caught in my mother’s situation. It is what it is, but I never want to lean on my children the way she had.

 

It seems every step forward I take, a setback is waiting to ambush me. Today, I found out in my writing class that for our final, we were being paired up to write a 55,000 word paper based in a random genre. First of all, I really didn’t want a partner. I work better alone, when I can think without someone else’s thoughts scattering mine. But mostly, it annoyed me because I might get hooked up with a slacker and end up having to do all the work. Second, I didn’t want to get stuck with anything in the fiction categories. I am not creative that way. I want to write about things that matter, like earthquakes in Nepal or the despicable treatment of women in the Middle East. Not about fictional lands and ridiculous love stories.

 

My professor, though, tends toward the artistic side - the very gaudy artistic side - and I just knew there were more of the former than the latter.

 

As I stared at the two large fishbowls filled with little slips of white paper, one with names and one with genres, I silently begged for my luck to continue.

 

Minutes ticked by and classmates were paired off after Professor Trinket announced that there would be no changes. “You get what you get, so don’t throw a fit,” she sing-songed at us like we were kindergarteners.

 

She finally called my name, then reached a manicured hand into the bowl for my partner’s name. I really don’t know anyone in the class, so I wasn’t sure who to hope for. There were over 100 students and I always sit at the front, same seat, and never look over my shoulder or make much conversation with my neighbors. Some would call me anti-social, but I’m just focused. No distractions.

 

“Your partner is…” she opened the slip, “Peeta Mellark.” I think my jaw actually came unhinged, it dropped so far. I had no idea he was even in the class. I can’t believe I had gone almost an entire semester without realizing we were sharing a classroom. I turned my head to locate him, and found his mop of blond hair and icy blue eyes instantly. Very back row, seat closest to the door.

 

And she’d said his name so pleasantly, like I should be grateful to have been paired with him, while my thoughts frantically searched for ways to switch partners. I would take anyone else. Anyone but him.

 

But that wasn’t even the worst part. Professor Trinket trilled my name like an annoying bird that sings too early in the morning. “Genre please,” she reminded me, tapping a lone, bright orange nail on the glass bowl. Since Peeta was all the way at the back, it was left up to me, and I felt my luck fading with every step I took toward the bowl. My fingers found one paper, but I dropped it in lieu of another, wanting to outsmart fate. I should have known I couldn’t.

 

I tried not to groan aloud when I opened the paper, wondering why I’d never thought to learn sleight of hand so I could replace this genre with something more respectable. Realizing I couldn’t, that all eyes were on me, I reluctantly handed it over.

 

“Erotica! My favorite!” Professor Trinket cried out, a huge smile spreading across her lips as she crushed the unlucky paper to her bosom. A few students chuckled, others sighed in relief. Mortified and cursing the powers that be, I stonily turned around to take my seat. No matter how hard I willed my eyes not to look in Peeta’s direction, they did, and a spark of anger ignited when I saw the vacant seat. _He fucking left!_ I guess I figured out which one of us would be writing the damn thing, and which one was the slacker. Which, given our history, is completely unfair. I decided then that I wasn’t letting him off the hook, no matter how badly I wanted to write by myself. He got the scholarship over me, he could damn well do the work.

 

I packed up my things and stomped up through the stadium seating and out the door.

 

“Katniss.” My name came from the left, sounding as unhappy as I felt. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the pair of blue eyes that had been missing when I’d last looked for them. Peeta was leaning against the wall, his golden hair perfectly disheveled, one foot propped up as he twirled a pen through his fingers while leveling me with a heated gaze. His eyes dropped to the motion in his hand as I neared him cautiously. When I stopped, he pushed off the wall and stuffed the pen in his pocket. He really was very handsome. I’d always thought so, but the animosity between us stifled any attraction I might feel towards him, and I was thankful for it in that moment. While he wasn’t looking at me, my eyes quickly skimmed the cut of his jaw and the swell of his lips, over broad shoulders, toned arms and chest that filled out the waffle-knit tee he was wearing. He really did have everything, and now he had the surety of an A for his final project because he’d been partnered with me. Infuriating.

 

“Peeta,” I replied coolly. “I guess we need to exchange information.” He pulled a phone out of his back pocket.

 

“What’s your number?” he asked hastily. I balked and his eyes narrowed.

 

“Relax, Princess,” he said with a smooth voice that barely covered the acidic tone. “I’m not hitting on you. And I promise to lose the digits just as soon as we’re done.”

 

His obvious disdain was more shocking to me than it should have been. “I- it’s not, I don’t-,” I stumbled through trying to tell him I don’t have a cell phone. I can’t afford it, but that would be a blow to my already wounded pride where he was concerned. “Can we just use email?”

 

Peeta scoffed. “Fine by me.” He pecked my email address into his phone, then slipped it into his back pocket, groused that he’d be in touch, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving the faint smell of sweet bread lingering behind.

 

Now, I’m sitting here in my room with my ancient laptop open, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to write mindless drivel and make it sound good. It shouldn’t be hard, considering it’s my professor’s favorite genre and it should be hard to screw this up, but that’s not the problem. The problem lay in the fact that, in all my hectic, responsible young adult life, I had none of the experiences that I would need to write any of this. None. Nada. A zero of the biggest and fattest kind.

 

I’m twenty one and I’ve never even been kissed. How am I supposed to write erotica when I don’t know the basics of a physical relationship? Somehow, insert tab A into slot B doesn’t seem impressive enough for Professor Trinket, and it would mortify me to show that to Peeta anyway. I tried watching some light porn, but all that did was freak me out and turn me on at the same time.

 

A pinging sound alerts me to a new email. I switch from google docs to gmail and my next breath lodges like a balloon in my throat when I see it’s from Peeta. We had mutually decided through our first few emails that I would start with an outline and then share it with him on docs. All of our communication is electronic, thereby eliminating the need for us to be in each other’s presence. I’m grateful, because just the thought of letting his eyes roam the words on this page has me crawling out of my skin. I couldn’t imagine what I would feel like if he were reading over my shoulder.

 

_Are you done yet?_

 

I groan for what seems like the hundredth time this week. I am not ready for this. Why does the universe hate me? After responding to him with _ten more minutes,_ I do another quick once over of the kissing scene I’ve written for the two main characters. She’s a virgin, and he’s… well, _not_. I’m hoping my characterization of her helps to hide my inexperience.

 

_For all Julia’s newfound bravery, she can’t seem to say what she actually wants. That she wants Adam to kiss her. That she wants to know what his lips feel like pressed against hers. If he tastes the way he smells, like a warm cinnamon bun on a chilly morning._

 

_Adam gives her a slight nod before leaning in. Her eyes drift closed as he places his wet lips on hers, and they fit together perfectly. He tilts his head to the left, and their lips lock. His mouth curls around her top lip, pulling it into his mouth. His hand drifts to the back of her neck. He holds her against his mouth as his tongue snakes out, and she opens her mouth to the intrusion. Tongues dueling for domination, while fireworks explode behind her eyelids. This first kiss… it’s everything she ever thought it would be and more._

 

It’s not too bad. I might even sound like I know a little something, but that just makes it more unnerving. Will he think I’m writing an actual experience? It’s terrifying how personal it seems. I also wonder why I care, but there’s no time to analyze that.

 

With a deep breath I share the doc to his email address, surprised when his picture pops up immediately in the top corner. He must have been staring at his computer, waiting. Unable to watch his cursor peruse the intimate words, I log out and force myself to do laundry and clean my bathroom. Anything to distract myself from the knowledge that he’s reading my scene. I wait an hour, thinking surely he must be out of the doc by now, and he is, but when I go back in, there are so many edits.

 

In the first paragraph, he comments ‘this part is good’, but in the very next he’s slashed through half of my words. Then there is a whole extra paragraph that’s not even mine. I rake my eyes over the changes, feelings of inadequacy rising higher and higher with every edit he’s made.

 

_Adam gives her a slight nod before **the soft flesh of his lips brushes hers, so soft she could have imagined it if it weren’t for the warmth of his body so close and the small puffs of his breath across her cheek.** ~~leaning in~~. He ~~r~~ **presses his lips more firmly against hers, his hand drifting to the soft skin at the nape of her neck. His touch burns like fire.** ~~eyes drift closed as he places his wet lips on hers, and they fit together perfectly.~~ _

 

 **_Anchoring her against his mouth, he glides his tongue across the seam of her lips, and they part for him._ ** _~~This first kiss… it’s everything she ever thought it would be and more.~~ _ _**Excitement races through her** as their tongues **tangle sensuously, slowly, exploring and making her want more.** ~~duel for domination~~ , ~~while fireworks explode behind her eyelids.~~_

**_But all too quickly, he’s pulling away. Her lips chase his, and he chuckles at her eagerness. “All in good time,” he tells her, and her blood thrums through her veins at his promise of more. Julia’s first kiss was everything and more she thought it would be, but that would only heighten her fantasies until next time._ **

 

There’s a comment at the end of the paragraph that widens my eyes and stops my breathing.

 

_‘Geez, Everdeen, haven’t you been kissed before?’_

 

It hurts. More than I’d like to admit. Is it that obvious? The embarrassment that rose to the surface when I started reading morphs into sheer anger. I want to reply that no, in fact, I have not been kissed, just to make him feel like the ass he is, but that would humiliate me more than him and probably have him bowling over in a fit of man-giggles, so I don’t. My pride is daring me to reply that I’ve been kissed by plenty of men, but that’s just a lie. Instead, I mimic his words, avoiding the kiss altogether.

 

_‘Geez, Mellark, are you telling me my writing is shitty?’_

 

After walking away to heat up a cup of ramen that I barely touch, I return, accepting all the edits because it really does read better than mine. Now that I’ve had an hour to digest the disgrace, I can see there’s definitely more feeling and sensuality to his sentences. Hell, it made me want to be Julia. Made me want to look into Adam’s soulful, blue eyes and hear him promise me more kisses.

 

The ball of anxiety continues to roll around in the pit of my stomach, making it difficult to fall asleep. When I do, I dream about lips and tongues and soft caresses. Butterflies in my belly and warm pants of breath on my cheeks.

* * *

 

I gather my things at the end of class and think about the scene I’m supposed to write today. It’s a little more than kissing, namely dry humping on the couch. Julia and Adam are taking things further this time, and it’s got my stomach tied up in knots. I’m way out of my league here. I ended up buying a romance novel at the used books place for .99 cents to get a feel for how the scene should go.

 

“Katniss.” I stop as Peeta calls my name from the same spot he waited in the first day we were paired. It pulls me from my thoughts, but adds another brick to the pit of my stomach. We haven’t spoken face to face about the assignment, and I feel my cheeks flushing already, and I try my best to shoot daggers at him from my eyes.

 

They must have felt more to him like wet noodles, because when I don’t move closer to him, he pushes off the wall and walks towards me. He crowds just a touch inside my personal space and it makes my skin prickle. His forearm is on the strap of his bag and brushes against the arm I’m using to anchor my books to my chest. A zing of something rockets through me, and I’m suddenly swimming in his sea blue eyes.

 

“Hey, I just wanted to say I, um, I’m sorry for the comment I made in the doc. Your writing is not shitty. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

 

 _Oh._ He seems… nervous. It’s kind of endearing and - dare I think it - _adorable?_ “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” I dismiss his concern quickly, needing those puppy dog eyes to stop unraveling the layers of hatred I have for him.

 

“You’re a really good writer. I mean, the plot is fantastic, but that particular scene just felt a little… off? From your others.”

 

An apology _and_ a compliment? He’s throwing me off my guard, and something antagonistic simmers inside me as I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. To mess with me. “Yeah, you’re right. It was off,” I shrug like it’s no big deal. Two can play that game. “I really liked what you did with it, though. I’m glad you’re my partner.”

 

I’m waiting for his eyes to narrow, or a sneer to form across his lips. But then he smiles, and I swear one of those layers evaporates completely, the substance of it no match for the shining look on his face. I’m startled by the flutter in my chest, and the alarm that quickly replaces it tells me I need to get away from him. Back to where I feel safest - or saf _er_ , rather. I need to keep our interactions relegated to the electronic kind. This face to face is too much for me, and if he smiles at me like that again, who’s to say all my defenses won’t melt at once? And what will I be left with then?

 

To admit that he deserved that scholarship instead of me? No way in hell.

 

I tell him I’ll see him around and start to step away, but he’s still smiling and it’s hard to watch where I’m going. I run smack dab into a large body and it almost knocks me on my ass. Not so thankfully, Peeta keeps me upright with a firm hand on my back, and one on my arm. His touch sizzles like an egg on a hot sidewalk. I’ve never felt anything like it before. Time slows and the sounds of students shuffling through the hall seems muffled, like it’s coming from the wrong end of a bullhorn. Some of my senses feel heightened, while others feel diminished. It’s disorienting.

 

I manage to mutter a quick thank you to Peeta for saving me from what would have been an embarrassing fall before bolting back to my place, breathless and a little panicked, but it doesn’t feel bad. It feels… _good._ There’s a rush of something exciting making its way through me, and before I lose it, I open my computer and begin to write, inspired by the afternoon’s event.

 

_...as Adam’s fingers trail Julia’s arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. His touch singes every nerve and turns her thoughts to mush. She doesn’t know how he does it, only that she feels combustible and he holds the only match that can set her ablaze._

 

I sit back in my chair and let out a whoosh of breath, proud of the scene I’ve just written. But before I can finish the last few paragraphs and send it to Peeta - I’m both excited and terrified for him to read this - my screen goes black. I tap on it, then press a few keys, hold the power button down too long. Nothing. I growl at the computer, but it doesn’t respond, obviously unafraid of me. I want to beat on it, take some frustration out that I finally wrote something to be proud of in this stupid genre and I need someone to read it, but it’s already a fragile piece of equipment. I plug it in, hoping that it’s just dead, but knowing I had more than half battery life. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t respond. This is what happens when you spend two hundred dollars on a piece of shit refurbished computer.

 

The only silver lining I can see is that docs saves everything automatically, so at least I haven’t lost the last two hours of my work.

 

It’s only six in the evening, but I still have to write the couch scene, so I guess that means I’m headed to the library.

 

With my lighter than normal bag slung over my shoulder, I march up the steps and into the gilded glass doors, present my student I.D. at the front desk, and head to the computer lab hoping for a vacancy. I spot one at the far end, and start making my way through the quiet crowd, but my stomach tightens when I get closer. The neighboring student is in my writing class. I only recognize him because he hit on me the first week of class, and I could never forget his leering, light blue stare and hulking frame, both of which put me on edge immediately. I avoided him like the plague after that. It helped that he wouldn’t go near the front of the room for a seat.

 

Cato Evans looks up before I can abandon my plans, surveys the crowded space and smirks. He knows I have no choice but to sit next to him, and his gaze stays on me, watching. Waiting to see what I'll do. Turn and run? I want to, but I’ve never one to back down from a challenge, so I take the seat. My back is ramrod straight even through my attempt to relax by reminding myself we're in a public place and it’s not like he’s going to attack me, but my body screams at his proximity.

 

He goes back to pecking his index fingers on the keyboard and, though I refuse to look at him, I can feel the grin on his face reaching across the two feet of space between us. I decide to ignore him, and I pray to the heavens he does the same to me.  

 

After logging into my docs account, I read through my last paragraph, hoping to bring back the spark I had before my computer gave up the ghost.

 

I get lost in my thoughts, wondering what it would feel like to touch my lips to someone else’s. Surprisingly, the first image that pops into my mind is Peeta. Even more surprisingly is the fact that I allow the thoughts to take over after convincing myself it’s only for the sake of writing a good paper. My mind reaches back to earlier, after class when Peeta stopped me. He kept smiling, and I focus on the plump lips that frame his straight, white teeth. They looked smooth, and soft, with an underlying firmness thanks to his chiseled from stone jawline. When I imagine them close to my own lips, they start to tingle.

 

“Whatcha doin’ there, Everdeen?” Cato interrupts me. I freeze, realizing the pads of my fingers were gliding absently across my mouth. I drop my hands back to the keyboard, and focus on the screen, hoping to avoid a conversation as my fingers fly furiously over the keys. I don’t even know what I’m typing. Probably a bunch of gibberish.

 

“How’s the porno _coming_?” he asks a little too loudly for my liking, and follows it with a snigger. I don’t miss the emphasis on that last word, either, and my cheeks heat up faster than a Bunsen burner. He leans in uncomfortably close and my entire body tenses. I’ll probably feel like I’ve been hit by a semi in the morning. “You know,” he says in a low voice, “a good writer always does her research, which I’d be more than happy to help with.”

 

That’s it. I can’t work like this. Without a word and as quickly as I can, I log out of docs, close the  browser window, and gather my things before bolting from the library as cackles and the contemptuous voice throwing out the words “so pure” follow me into the night. My legs, and my breathing, don’t slow down until I lock myself in my room. This will definitely put us behind schedule, but until I can figure something out that doesn’t involve the library or purchasing another computer, Peeta will either have to wait, or write the scene himself.


	2. Chapter 2

 

I’m early to class. Well, I’m always early to class, but today I’m extra early. I’m almost certain Cato won’t be in his seat, but I don’t want to take any chances. I’m relieved when I breeze by the one he usually occupies, back row of course, and slide into my own front and center chair. What I don’t expect is for Peeta to slide in next to me moments later.

 

“Hey,” he says casually, like we’ve been trading pleasantries all semester.

 

“Hey.” My response has more of a _‘what are you up to?’_ tone, but it doesn’t seem to faze him.

 

“You never let me in the doc last night,” he says. I go through all of the reasons I came up with during my sleepless night as to why I’m late on my part of the story, but they run and hide beneath Peeta’s cerulean gaze. It’s like standing on the edge of one of those deep, natural pools I’ve only read about, poised and ready to dive in. When I don’t offer a reason, he fills the silence. “If we don’t stay on task we won’t complete the story in time. And I’ve got some other projects I’m working on that have to be turned in at the same time. I really need us to stay on schedule.”

 

Is he calling me a slacker? His rebuke, no matter how gentle, pokes at the dying embers of what I once considered hatred for him. It’s amazing how quickly a week of working with him has whittled away at it. But of course, now I look like the lazy one. Me, who’s had a string of bad luck tied to me for years. Me, who can’t ever seem to catch a break. Me, who gets to look like the one that’s letting _him_ down. Fuck my life.

 

I barely notice the other students filling in around us, grabbing seats here and there. “Don’t worry, Peeta. I’ll have it done today, and then some, and your precious grade will be salvaged.” My words are biting, more derisive than I meant, but I just can’t find it in me to care.

 

Something like remorse flashes through those baby blues I stupidly thought moments ago were a breath of fresh air. Now they’re stale and suffocating. Katniss Everdeen is nothing if not dependable and hardworking. He’ll get his A. And he’ll get it knowing that _I_ am the reason for it.

 

Professor Trinket comes out of her office and class starts before Peeta can say anything else, and when he’s occupied packing up his things, I haul ass out of there before he can talk to me again, and head straight for the library.

 

Thankfully, Cato isn’t there. I check behind me to see if he’s followed me from class, but he hasn’t. I pick a  space between two other occupied computers, so that if he does wander in, he can’t sit next to me, and log in to my docs. I’m on a mission. A mission to prove to Peeta that I’m the best classmate he could have been partnered with. I vow to myself that he will thank me profusely for his A.

 

Unfortunately, my focus becomes muddled, quicker than it took for Peeta’s blame to land squarely on my shoulders, as more students trickle into the computer lab. I keep looking over my shoulder, my braid whipping back and forth each time. None of them are Cato, but most of them I’ve seen in my writing class, and I’m pretty sure they’re doing the same thing I am. Professor Trinket gave us three weeks to get this done, and we’ve only managed about 15,000 words so far, thanks to my computer debacle.

 

 _Okay, focus, Everdeen_. I take a deep breath and try to forget about the growing number of bodies in the room, all of whom can see exactly what I’m writing if they want.

I try to tell myself it’s just dry humping. All of them have done it, I’m sure. Well, maybe except for the girl across from me with the dark, straggly bob who keeps muttering the same sentence to herself over and over while pecking the keyboard - something about tick tock - but there’s just something so private about what I’m writing. And I’m sharing it with the world.

 

Okay, that’s a stretch. I’m sharing it with a professor and one student. A male student who would probably pity my lack of experience, so I might as well be standing in front of everyone and reading this aloud. I definitely _feel_ like I’m sharing it with the world. I feel like I’m opening up a part of myself in this genre that I would otherwise keep hidden. Like these words are a key, and I’m making multiple copies and just handing them out to whomever wants one. Maybe they’ll read it, maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll like it. Do I want to know if they don’t? _Do I want to know if they do?_ I’m not certain. The only thing I know for sure right now is that all of these insecure thoughts have my pulse racing. I need to focus, or I’ll never get this done.

 

I place my fingers on the correct keys and begin to type.

 

_Julia follows Adam to the couch, where he pulls her into his lap. She straddles his hips, the foreign object between his legs connecting with her center. Experimentally, she rubs against it. He groans and wraps his arms around her waist._

 

My fingers freeze as someone breezes by my back. They slow, and I quickly switch to the drive screen, where my document titles are more respectable for the errant eye. Things about cheetahs being dangerously close to extinction, and one of my personal favorites, The Gender Revolution, a piece I turned in at the beginning of the semester about the struggles transgendered people face. I got an A on that one. I smirk at the memory of the professor’s notes about how impressed she was with it, and my chest heaves with a dismal sigh that I’m not writing another pertinent piece.

 

I throw a cursory glance over my shoulder _again_ to check for anymore wayward eyes, then return to the story.

 

_He kisses her neck passionately, and she jerks her head back to give him better access._

 

“He kisses her neck passionately?”

 

My heart lodges in my throat at the voice behind me, and I jump in my seat, turning around so quickly I smack my knee on the table leg. _Ouch!_ That fucking hurt, and I bite my lip to keep from yelling out. Though, when I come face to face with Johanna Mason, who I've had to pre read for twice this semester, it takes more effort to control myself.

 

“ _What_ are you doing?” I hiss, mindful to keep my voice low.

 

“Duh, I’m reading porn. Or trying to anyway. You really need to kick up a notch or ten, Everdeen. Effie likes her erotica to be _erotic_. Not a snooze fest.”

 

I've never been accused of having affection for Johanna and, at this moment, it's becoming obvious I may never have any. Despite my reddening cheeks, she keeps blathering, uncaring of the people around us hearing the conversation.

 

“At this point she should have his pants down and his dick in her hand. Possibly in her mouth.”

 

Oh. My. God. Can she be any more crass? And in the library of all places! I'm mortified, utterly and completely. A lot of people are staring, some of them nervously, eyes flitting back and forth between their screens and us. Others are locked onto our exchange. A small few are trying to read over my shoulder. _Perverts_.

 

“No thanks. I don't need your help on this one,” I snap at her as I log out and shut down the computer. How a female can make me any more uncomfortable than I was last night with Cato leering at me, I have no idea.

 

Johanna watches me as I pack up my things, then tries to give me some advice. “You know, Everdeen, if I were you, I’d get that hot, blond partner to help me out.” I glance up to catch her eyebrows moving up and down suggestively. “Maybe you can get him to let you rub your center against his foreign object.” She mocks the words I wrote, cackling as I hightail it out of the lab.

 

That's two embarrassing events at the library in a row. I think it's safe to say I can't go back there anymore. What am I going to do? I don't have the funds to buy a computer, even another refurbished one, and writing this genre in a public place has proven to be a challenge at best. A downright disgrace at worst. I'd rather run the gauntlet than be subjected to the ridicule again.

 

At first, I couldn't believe Johanna would suggest something like that. But now that I’ve thought about it more on the long walk to my room, I’m surprised that it surprised me. I’ve experienced enough about Johanna Mason in class to know she’s loud, obnoxious, and crude. And that’s the short list. I get the feeling that she would do exactly what she said to me in the library, and it makes me shiver thinking about her and Peeta together. But only because she’s scary. And gross.

 

I decide she’s completely wrong, and I don’t entertain her suggestion any longer. Not that I entertained it for any other reason than to determine her madness. I can’t finish my chapter tonight, and I know I’m going to catch heat from Peeta for it in class tomorrow, but I’ll just have to talk to Professor Trinket about it. I’m her best student. Surely she can help me secure a computer to finish a project that’s half our grade.

* * *

 

“Katniss!” Professor Trinket looks up from her computer when I poke my head into her office door. Her hair is the color of orange sherbert and twice the size of her head, all piled on top in a knot the shape of a rainbow. It’s strange to me, but it suits her eccentric personality.

 

“Hello, Professor.” I slink inside, less sure of myself than when I arrived to class. I’ve got exactly six minutes to explain my situation and not sound lame.

 

“Take a seat, darling. And please, call me Effie.” She closes her computer and sits back in her swivel chair, giving me her undivided attention. It’s unnerving. I’d almost rather she kept working and only half-listened to me. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I, um, need some help on my - _our_ \- project. Well, m-my part of it... anyway.” I already sound like an idiot, breathing heavy between words and stumbling over syllables. I am not a speaker. I’m a writer. Words on a page is how I communicate best. My thoughts are a jumbled mess until I can channel them through my pen onto paper in a cohesive, filtered manner. Maybe I should have written her a letter.

 

“Anything I can do to help, Katniss. Just say the word. You have such talent and promise, I can’t wait to read what you’ve come up with!” The smile on her face beams so brightly the electric company could make a killing by channelling her energy. She’s enthusiastic, and whatever notions I have about her oddities, she’s been nothing but supportive of my writing. It strips my pride and my dilemma comes spilling out of me.

 

“My computer crashed. Like, it died a hundred lifetimes dead. And I don’t have the money for a new one. I tried going to the library, but I got interrupted so many times, and by people who are ridiculing my work, and I just _can’t_.” My head shakes to emphasize that I _really_ can’t go back there. At least not to write about sex. “I don’t have a cell phone, and I have no friends I can ask-”

 

“You could ask me.”

 

I almost choke at the voice behind me. Smooth, melodic. A timbre that’s deep and uplifting. Even though we’ve only spoken a few times, I know Peeta’s voice. It’s the same voice I hear in my head when I write Adam’s dialogue. Not on purpose, of course. It’s just that I can’t _not_ hear it, so I give in because I’m on a time crunch.

 

Effie’s eyes widen in delightful surprise and she clasps her hands together over her heart. “Excellent idea! You two are partners anyway, it just makes sense. You can hash out all the details together.” I cringe at _details_ because those things involve sweaty body parts and abnormal breathing. How am I supposed to hash out anything sexual with my male co-writer when I can’t even utter the word vagina out loud to myself?

 

“Katniss why didn’t you think of this before?” Effie admonishes me blithely.

 

Well, how about because this is exactly what I’m trying to avoid? I’m about to say it out loud, to hell with politeness, but I make the mistake of turning around to face Peeta. I don’t know where it comes from, but the word _delicious_ flashes across my brain. It must be that cheesy romance novel I read. _People are not food_ , I chant to myself, rolling my eyes at the thought before I can think better of it. The friendly smile on Peeta’s face falters, and I realize it’s because of me.

 

But then I remember that he probably overheard my entire sob story about how I’m broke and I have nothing, while he stands behind me with everything going for him, including me as his writing partner, and I decide letting him think that eye roll was for him isn’t a big deal.

 

“Okay,” Effie chirps, interrupting the quick silence that settled over the room. “Well, it's time for class. I'm glad you two got that sorted out.”

 

I stand up as her chair scrapes across the wood floor, my gaze never leaving Peeta’s. His eyes look challenging, and he doesn’t move out of the doorway. I walk towards him and narrow mine back just enough to accept whatever test he seems to be throwing my way, but I break the stare first. I have to as my forearm brushes against his chest when I try to squeeze by him, and I inhale a short burst of air that smells like sugar and spice.

 

_And everything nice._

 

Damn that romance novel! And why does it always remind me of food?

 

“We need to talk after class,” Peeta says as he follows me to the front row. He sits in the same seat as the day before, and I wonder why he prefers this over the back row seat he’s held the entire semester. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod my head and dig out a notebook. Try to focus on the lecture.

 

It’s not easy when a gorgeous man I’ve despised the last four years is sitting next to me, smelling like a damn confectionery and making something inside me flip over a bunch of times. I feel like I’m on an hour-long roller coaster ride.

 

In addition to the tumultuous feelings inside, I’m hungry, and my stomach rumbles at least twenty times before Professor Trinket dismisses class. I clumsily gather my things and slip on my pack, turning to find Peeta waiting for me.

 

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asks with mild irritation.

 

My reply is quick and defensive. “I had it handled.”

 

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.” He folds his arms across his chest, and the movement draws my eyes to the way his fitted shirt dips slightly between his pecs. He’s not huge, and if he wore baggy shirts you’d never notice the ridges, but he’s clearly spent time in the gym.

 

“What did it sound like to you?” I turn his statement back on him because A, I don’t know how to respond to that, and B, I want to know exactly what he heard.

 

“It sounded like you were having a rough day.” I’m taken aback, but it has nothing to do with Peeta’s genuine words and everything to do with the scene out of the novel I read. The line is almost verbatim from the boss to his secretary right before he bent her over a pile of papers on his desk. I can’t seem to get the raunchy scene out of my mind, and Peeta has to snap his fingers in my face in an ‘Earth to Katniss’ manner before I'm pulled out of my stupor.

 

“Is this why you haven’t finished the next part?”

 

I look away, embarrassed. Partly because I’m scared he can see the filth playing out in my head, and partly because I hate not being able to pull my own weight. Peeta takes my silence as the answer.

 

“You can use my laptop.” I swing my eyes back to him and find a grin playing on his lips. It does something to my already flopping insides, and before I can protest his kindness out of sheer habit, he speaks again. “Look, I’m behind, too, and I need to catch up or we won’t finish in time.”

 

I need to wash my brain out with soap. Why is everything he’s saying to me bathed in debauchery?

 

“Let’s hook up tomorrow night,” he offers casually as he hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder. There goes my newly discovered dirty mind again. “We can plow through and get a bunch of it done. Maybe even get ahead if we pull an all nighter since it’s a Friday.”

 

“Uh, okay.” I want to shake my head and clear of the sexy cobwebs that have crisscrossed over the common sense part of my brain. “Yeah, but I, uh, I have to work.”

 

“After work then,” he says.

 

“Late.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“I have to work. Late,” I explain. He smirks at me and cocks his head to the side.

 

“You know, If I had a complex about you - and I totally do - I’d think you were dodging me, Everdeen.”

 

“No! I just, I can’t skip out on work. It’s… we wouldn’t even be able to get started until close to midnight.”

 

“Alright then. I’ll pick you up.” He turns on his heel, and before I can wonder how he knows where I work, he throws out, “see you at midnight,” then disappears into the hall.

* * *

 

It’s thirty minutes until close, and my stomach feels like a hornets nest. This is a bad idea, for reasons I don’t fully comprehend, but I can’t get out of it. I need to get this project done.

 

With that goal in mind, I brought a notebook to work and wrote four full pages of the story that I can transfer to docs as soon as I get to Peeta’s, in hopes that we won’t be pulling an _‘all nighter’_ as he’d said. I’ve never spent a night alone with a guy before, especially one as appetizing as him.

 

And why the fuck do I keep referring to him as something that should be tasted? I’ve never had this problem before. It’s as if reading one love story opened the door to a hundred tiny aliens that want to use my mind as their sexual playground.

 

I busy myself cleaning the box office of the Movie Tavern again. I can’t sit still long enough to write anymore and I have to do something to keep the nerves from eating away at me. By the time Peeta arrives, the space is so clean you could perform open heart surgery in it. He taps on the window and gives a small wave. I nod at him and pretend to gather my things, though I’ve already had my stuff packed up for at least twenty minutes.

 

He’s waiting by a 4x4 Jeep with the just the roll bars for a roof, looking scrumptious in jeans, a t-shirt and a light canvas jacket open down the front. One hand is tucked casually in his pocket, the other holding him up while he leans on the hood of the Jeep. When I get closer, he opens the passenger side door for me, closing it after I climb in. Through my surprise, I stutter out a ‘thank you.’ I expected him to honk at me from the parking lot and stay in the car with the engine running while I let myself in. He seems like a good enough guy. It still burns that he got the scholarship, but I’m having a harder time justifying my resentfulness after reading some of his work and interacting with him in a more congenial way.

 

We drive in silence for a few minutes. I grope through my mind for something to say because it’s making me uncomfortable, but he speaks first.

 

“Ready for a long night?” He sounds like he is. Not a stitch of sleepiness to be heard in his voice.

 

“Um, actually I wrote while I had some down time at work.” I fumble through my bag for the notebook and pull it out, opening it to the first page. I smooth my hand over the paper absently. It’s the couch scene, and even though I know he can’t read the words while he’s driving, I feel like they’re leaping off the page and screaming at him “Look at me!”

 

Peeta reaches for the notebook, but I snatch it away and clutch it to my chest. He chuckles. “What’s the matter?” His hand returns to the steering wheel and his gaze flits curiously back and forth between me and the road.

 

“Y-you’re driving,” I tell him quickly. An easy-going smile takes over his pretty face.

 

“Sorry, I’m just anxious to read it.”

 

Dread drops in my gut like a brick. “You shouldn’t be. It’s terrible. Really,” I add when he gives me a doubtful look. I stuff the notebook back in the bag, thinking of all the reasons to excuse the absolute horror of the scene. I was somewhat confident in it when I was at work, but being in Peeta’s presence has left my self-assurance riddled with holes.

 

I hope I’m imagining the worst. That he’ll read it and praise my work instead of find fault with it. My lack of experience with the subject matter is mocking me. Telling me that there’s no way he won’t see past it. No way he won't make fun of it.

 

“I’m sure it’s great,” he interrupts my thoughts as we pull into the driveway of a small duplex.

 

It’s charming, just like it’s inhabitant, and while my eyes roam the brick porch and quirky, asymmetrical roofline, Peeta opens my door and reaches in to grab my bag.

 

“I could have done that,” I say as I step out.

 

“I know,” is all he says. A few minutes later I’m settled on Peeta’s couch, computer in my lap, starting the transfer process while he fetches a few beers. I probably shouldn’t, but I need some social lubricant or I’ll end up making a huge fool of myself. The nerves and I rarely give a good public showing.

 

Two bottles clink as Peeta sets them on the table, and the couch dips when he sits next to me. Our thighs don’t quite touch, but I wonder what it would feel like if they did. It distracts me long enough that I don’t realize Peeta has my notebook in his hands until I see his eyes skimming the page.

 

“Where are you? If I _dic_ tate it’ll go faster.” I cast a glance at his face, wondering if he meant to emphasize the first part of that word the way I took it. But I see no evidence of it. He’s cool as a cucumber. Me, not so much, so I take a drink.

 

This is it, though. The moment I’ve been dreading. I need another drink. There’s no use refusing his offer, because he’d read it soon anyway, so I nod my head and point to the paragraph where I got distracted. He takes a pull from his bottle first, and I swallow when he does, watching the apple in his throat bob gracefully. Then, he clears his voice and begins to read.

 

_Adam kissed Julia’s mouth as she moaned, rubbing herself over his crotch. Back and forth, back and forth. It felt too good to stop._

 

I type the words out, pausing when I finish to wait for more, but a quick side-eye glance at Peeta knots my stomach. His brow is creased and his lips move silently, reading over the words.

 

“I told you it wasn’t great.” I try to preempt what I can see is coming. I curse my bad luck again, and take another swig of beer. Having to witness his displeasure with my part of the story in person is much more difficult than seeing it on a screen in the privacy of my bedroom. It’ll take me ten times as long to put myself back together than it did the first time he edited.

 

“It’s not… _bad_ ,” he says. “It’s just, you’re a good writer, but there’s no feeling to this. It’s mechanical and stilted.” He drops the notebook in his lap and turns his head in my direction. I glance away before he can make contact. “Sex is all about the senses. Hearing, touching, tasting.”

 

I feel a dampness in my panties at the way he says _tasting_.

 

“Look,” he picks the notebook back up, “her face is buried in his neck. What does he smell like?”

 

Cinnamon. Definitely cinnamon. And hops.

 

“Did he shave recently or is there some rough stubble there that could be mentioned?”

 

Looks like stubble…

 

“And here,” he points to another paragraph, “he’s kissing her, but what do his lips feel like to her?” He takes another pull of his beer and I notice the way his lips wrap around the bottle. “Is it like a soft breeze, a firm handshake, or a jackhammer? If you want the reader to feel something, then your characters have to feel it first.”

 

I’m definitely feeling something. It’s exciting and terrifying all at once, so I grab my beer and gulp half of it down. Maybe alcohol will loosen my thoughts enough that I can start to pick through them and figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

 

“Hey, slow down, there,” Peeta chuckles, placing his hand on mine to lower the bottle. His touch is like a match that brings something blazing to life inside me. I don’t know what to do or how to control it. “Everything okay?”

 

“Just, have a bit of nerves, that’s all.”

 

“Why would you have any reason to be nervous? It’s just a story.” He shrugs and the ease with which everything comes to him annoys me.

 

“That’s easy for you to say.” Ah, the beer is kicking in. Goody. “Everything comes to you on a silver platter.” His beer bottle is poised just near his lips as he looks me over curiously. He says nothing, and I take that as my cue to explain my sudden irritation.

 

“Look, I’m sorry that I don’t have the same experience you obviously do. I’ve had absolutely no time in my life to devote to kissing and, and _foreplay_ ,” I spit the word out like it disgusts me. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, you know. I should be writing about how global warming is eroding our shorelines, not how body parts fit together. I mean, who’s ever heard of porn written by someone who’s had absolutely zero experience on the subject? It’s absurd!” I throw my hands up in exasperation, forgetting about the bottle in my hand, and beer sloshes out onto the couch.

 

“Ugh,” I groan at my clumsiness while Peeta retrieves a cloth and pats at the damp spot until it’s dry. Ish. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head at myself. He’s been awfully quiet since I outed myself for the ignorant virgin I am.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures me, though I’m anything but. “Let’s, uh, just get back to it. Alright?”

 

I nod resolutely, relieved that he’s chosen to ignore my ill-timed confession, and he picks up my notebook again. “Let’s start at the beginning, when he pulls her into his lap. He walks her to the couch, so how is she feeling about that? Reluctant? Excited?”  
  


He pauses, waiting for me to respond. I wish he would just keep talking and I could stay quiet. It’s obvious nothing good can come of it. “I guess… both?” I shrug my shoulders and keep my eyes on the notebook. “What do you think?”

 

He chuckles. “Well, since I’d be speaking from Adam’s POV, there wouldn’t be any reluctance for me. I’d be excited as hell.”

 

A blush creeps over my cheeks and I’m thankful for the lamp lighting in the room that keeps it from being too noticeable.

 

“Would you, uh, be reluctant? If you were Julia, I mean.”

 

“Probably a little.” I put myself in her situation for a second. It’s hard not to imagine Peeta pulling me along to the couch, since he’s sitting on one right next to me. “I might be hesitant, but more of the unknown, and making a fool of myself rather than a reluctance to... be intimate.” My last word is breathy, and I drain the last of my beer to try and hide it.

 

“What makes you think she’d make a fool of herself?” he asks. I can feel him staring at me, and it makes it so difficult to speak.  

 

I clear my throat first, since it feels like sandpaper. “Because, she’s never done anything and he’s done everything. What if she does something he doesn’t like?”

 

“So, it’s more about being nervous,” he says, and I nod. “Okay, so she needs to fidget with something.” He makes a few notes in the margin of my book. “ _...twirls the end of her braid through her fingers._ ”

 

“She has a braid?” I blurt, and Peeta goes completely still.

 

“Doesn’t she?” he asks quietly without taking his eyes from the book. I don’t remember giving Julia a braid. But I also didn’t give Adam blue eyes and wavy, blond hair. Yet, in my mind’s eye that’s what he possesses.

 

“Maybe,” I answer. “What color is her braid?” It’s ridiculously bold for me, and my heart feels like it’s in my throat because what the hell do I want him to say? He’s Peeta Mellark, public enemy numero uno for the last four years of my life. Do I really want to hear that he pictures me as Julia and himself as Adam?

 

The part of me that’s running wild says absolutely. _Yes, I do!_

 

Peeta doesn’t just answer my question with words, though, and my breath hitches when he finally looks at me. I feel his hand hovering by my back and realize he’s picked up the end of my braid. He brings it between us, his fingertips brushing back and forth over the fine hairs. “It’s dark, like chocolate. And feels like silk. Her skin, perfectly smooth, glows like an olive in the sun. And her eyes are like silver dollars.” Now I know he’s not talking about Julia. I gave her fire-engine red hair and milky skin dotted with freckles. She has sea-green eyes.

 

He’s inched closer to me, or I to him. I’m not sure, but there’s a magnetic pull between us that I’m helpless to break. His eyes have me in a trance, and before I know it, his lips are touching mine.

 

I’m frozen as his mouth moves slightly against mine. He pulls back, just enough to search my face, and my words come out in pants. “I don’t… I don’t know…what-”

 

“I’ll show you,” he whispers reassuringly against my lips before he moves to the corner of my mouth, placing a gentle kiss that feels anything but innocent there. His hand weaves into my hair and his mouth trails down, where he deposits a series of kisses along my chin, leading up to the opposite corner of my lips. They part in a gasp and he sucks the bottom one between his own.

 

Instinctively, my hands find his face, and my thumbs rub along the stubble I’d noticed earlier. _How does it feel?_ Peeta’s question echoes in my head. It feels rugged. Rough enough to scrub away my innocence if I wanted him to. I’m so focused on the feel of his midnight shadow that I almost miss the moment his tongue slips past my lips.

 

It’s not like I imagined it would be. Not that I’d imagined it much before, but when I did it wasn’t this pleasant. He probes me gently, coaxing me to do the same, and when I suck on his tongue experimentally, his groan vibrates between us and boosts my confidence.

 

His hands wander down my sides, stopping at my waist and he squeezes. The pull he gives me is slight, but it’s enough to let me know he wants me closer. He leans back into the couch and I follow, but the angle is awkward, so I slide my leg over his lap. I can’t believe I just did that, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I remember what he said moments ago about being excited as hell, and I decide I don’t mind, either.

 

The sweet exploration of my first ever kiss transforms into something richer, hotter. Peeta tilts my head and his arm snakes around my lower back, anchoring me firmly to him. Every part of my body is on sensory overload, from my toes that are curled in suspense to my thighs clenched around his hips, my breasts smashed delectably against his hard chest. My mind is racing with all the excitement, and I don’t even register that I’m rocking my hips into his until a bulge beneath his pants catches me in a place i never knew could feel like _that_.

 

A high-pitched mewl joins a deep growl and I know I’ve done something pleasurable for both of us, so I do it again. And again. Heat begins to coil between my thighs. Peeta’s head falls back on the couch, breaking our kiss. My hips continue their rhythm because there’s no way I can stop now. I stare at his pretty face, his eyes half-lidded as he watches me. The cleft in his chin that I want to drag the pad of my thumb over. My gaze is drawn to the light scruff at his neck and I want to do more than just feel it. When my lips brush the underside of his jaw, his hands latch onto my waist, fingers finding the skin under my t-shirt and jeans, and he digs in.

 

The stubble is deliciously jagged beneath the soft skin of my lips, and as I breathe him in I wonder if he tastes like the cinnamon and spices he smells of. My hips are still working, the movement aided by his strong hands as he drags me back and forth over the bulge, and I lick his jaw before I can talk myself out of how ridiculous it could be.

 

“Fuck, Katniss,” he rasps, and it sounds almost painful. If I were at all clear-headed, I might wonder if I’m hurting him. Instead, I’m chasing something that’s building deep in my belly, and it feels… _promising._ I sink my fingers into his soft, blond curls and speed up, making sure to catch that sweet spot with every stroke of my hips. Whatever it is I’m chasing, it’s like a streaking fox and I’m a hound, hell-bent to capture it. It’s so close, and then something tightens inside me, ever so briefly, before the floor falls out from under me. There’s not much to do but hang on as I take the most incredible dive into blissful oblivion that I’ve ever known.

 

I pull at Peeta’s hair and bury his face into my chest as I ride out my first-ever orgasm. It wrenches sounds from me that I’m certain I’ll be embarrassed of when I think about this later. Peeta tenses beneath me, tightening his hold and he moans the Lord’s name in between so much filth he should probably go to church immediately after to seek forgiveness.

 

When it’s over, I don’t move. I can’t, because if I do, I’ll have to look him in the eye, and after what we just did, I don’t think I can. The gentle circles his thumbs are rubbing into my lower back are probably meant to make me feel calm, but the effect is the opposite.

 

I suddenly feel like I have to get away, and I slink off of him to the side. In an effort not to look him in the eyes, because surely he’s as embarrassed as I feel, I keep my head down. I immediately see a wet spot at his crotch, and I wonder if that’s me or him. Did I leave my sex fluid on his pants? Oh my God. What have I done?

 

Peeta politely excuses himself to his room, to clean up I guess, and I waste no time jamming my notebook in my backpack and taking off out the front door.


	3. Chapter 3

 

The walk to work is short, but I’m no less exhausted after my sleepless night than if I’d had to run miles to get there. All night long, my mind was wrestling with mortification mixed with a little self-loathing - while my body was on a whole other track. It doesn’t care that I lost control in the arms of my nemesis, moving in a single night from my first kiss to… whatever the hell that was. Nope, my body finally knows what it was missing all these years and it  wants more. More kissing. More touching. More stubble under my fingers. I actually imagined what it would be like to lick him in forbidden places, like his nipples, or… lower. _Much_ lower.

 

I spent the night at war with myself -- blushing at my thoughts one second, berating myself the next -- until I finally caved into fatigue. I woke up three hours later to find my alarm had been going off for twenty minutes. Sleep, however little, did nothing to dispel the embarrassment. It clings to me like aggressive static electricity. This must be what the walk of shame feels like. Maybe I should read that book again.

 

The mid-morning sun blinds me when I turn the corner of the building, or I would have seen him, jumped behind a tree or hid in the alley until he left, but the sun is part of the universe after all. And I’ve already gotten the message that we are not friends.

 

He leans against the smooth glass of the box office, hair a mess and I can see the dark circles under his eyes even from twenty feet away. His hard glare reminds me of the Peeta I was familiar with from before the project, rather than the friendly one I'm starting to get used to. It threatens to halt me in my tracks, but there’s nowhere for me to go. He’s seen me, and now that I’ve seen him, I’m not entirely sure I want to run.

 

“Katniss,” he says as I come closer. Last night, my name on his tongue was like honey, smooth and sweet. Today, it’s frigid and makes me shiver in spite of the spring warmth. I prefer last night’s version.

 

“Hey.” It’s lame, I know, but I’m too shocked to say anything else. I thought I had the weekend to prepare myself for what to say. Maybe write a letter detailing everything I know I can’t express with spoken words and give it to him in class. But it’s staring me in the face a hell of a lot sooner than I expected.

“It’s nice to know you’re okay.” My heart thumps wildly in my chest as my brain scrambles to understand his cool words.

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head.

 

“Because you left my place just before two in the morning and you had no car, no cell phone, and no way to let me know you made it home? Not to mention I don’t even know where you live.” His tone is low but incredulous and my mouth opens and closes in my futile effort to form a response. I hadn’t even thought about that. I walk everywhere. I go where I want, when I want. I’ve been on my own far too long to be dependent on anyone. It’s one thing to be _made_ to rely on him, like in the case of our project, but it’s a whole other to choose it for myself. I just wanted to get out of there before I made an even bigger fool of myself.

 

“You know we have to finish the project. Unless you’re going to bail on that, too,” he says before I can defend my actions.

 

“I’m not,” I snap. I may be embarrassed of how I behaved, but I am no quitter.

 

“Good, because I’d hate to earn your A for you.” He quirks an eyebrow and I wonder if he can see straight through me. Whether he meant it as a threat or a prod, it works, and bitter words I’ve carried around for four years come spewing out, sharp and ready for battle.

 

“If either of us is going to be responsible for an A, it’ll be _me_. If you think I’m going to sit idly by and ride your coattails of glory like you did the free ride you _earned_ to this school, you’ve got another thing coming.”

 

As soon as the words leave my mouth I hear how awful they sound. Ugh. This is why I write. I can edit words and chew on them for a while, deciding whether or not they're fit to be on the page. If they're the right feeling I want to convey. They can be perfect at first, then seem petulant until finally tweaked and tempered to the desired effect. What I've just revealed is rude and petulant, and I can't take it back, even though the injured look on his face makes me want to so badly.

 

If Peeta is any kind of clever, and I’m sure that he is, he’ll figure out that I’m angry about the scholarship if he doesn’t know already.

 

Peeta stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down at the ground. I relax my defensive posture. Clearly I’ve hurt him, and I’m not mean enough to kick a puppy.

 

“Glad to hear it, Everdeen,” he says, his words coming out light and feeling anything but. It’s like a two-ton elephant jumped on my shoulders and asked for a ride. “Let’s just try to focus and get our project done.”

 

My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say, and Peeta senses my hesitation.

 

“We’re adults, Katniss,” he says with a resigned sigh. “We can work at the coffee shop if you want.” He points across the way to the quaint establishment that’s usually packed with people and it makes me instantly nervous. It’ll be just like the library. I picture Johanna making weird eyes and shouting innuendos at me from across the room, and Cato leering over my shoulder and sniffing my hair like a dog in heat. Nope. Not doing this in public.

 

“You’re place works.” My voice cracks halfway through and I cough a little before adding, “You’re right, we’re adults, and...”

 

“You sure?” he asks when I don’t fill in the blank, the doubt in his eyes matching the tone of his voice. I nod, certain that I’d rather write in semi-private than in an elbow-to-elbow atmosphere. “Alright. What time should I expect you?” He doesn’t offer me a ride, which, oddly, stings a little. But it’s for the best. The less time we spend alone together the better.

 

“I get off at seven,” I tell him.

 

He says, “See you then,” and I swear I hear a hint of a smile in those words, but he turns to leave before I can be sure.

 

I watch him as he walks away, prepared to avert my blatant ogling should he look back at me. His blond waves ruffle with the slight breeze as he walks with his head lower than it should be, shoulders slumped. My conscience is screaming at me to tell him I’m sorry for what I said, but any bravery I may have possessed to call out to him fades with every step he takes away from me. I try to convince myself that it doesn’t matter, that he’s probably not even thinking about it. But even as I try to weave that lie into something I can believe, I know that offering him an apology isn’t just about him. It’s about me, too. I want to obliterate one of the most disheartened looks I’ve ever seen.

 

As I watch him drive out of the parking lot my heart expands in my chest, like it’s trying to get his attention, frantically waving and yelling _hey, pay attention to me! I’m what’s real, here. Not the bitter shell that’s holding me prisoner!_

 

Too tired to try and decipher it all, I go to work, but it nags at me until I’m standing in front of his door. I hope he’s not looking through the peep hole. If he is, then he’s been watching me give myself a pep talk about how I can do this and not look or sound like an idiot in front of him again.

 

There are two things I’ve decided I won’t be repeating about last night. One, I won’t leave without telling him goodbye. Not even if I wet myself from laughing too hard, which is highly doubtful given our strained situation. And two-

 

The door swings open suddenly and I jump. “You made it,” Peeta says, clearly surprised. I breathe deeply to calm my racing heart. He waves me in and gives me a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’ll be right back. I left my phone in the car.” While he’s gone I wander through the door, glancing quickly away from the couch. I take a seat in the chair, the only other piece of furniture in his living room besides the coffee table and television stand. That is the second thing I decided - not to be too close to him. Focus is the name of my game, and breaking that little rule may set my mind off on a trail it doesn’t need to go down.

 

The urge to bolt before he comes back is strong, but I remember the promise I made to myself, and to Peeta, even though he doesn’t know about it. I pick at a thread on the cushion while I wait for him to come back. It seems like forever, but in reality I know it’s only mere minutes.

 

When he returns, he gives me a curious look that I answer with a painfully awkward smile. I wonder if he disapproves of my seating choice, and if he would have looked at me differently if I had taken the same seat I was in last night when _that_ happened.

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, slapping his hands at his sides and then shoving them into his pockets. Like he’s not sure what to do with them.

 

“Yes, thank you.” He gives me a quick smile, and I see a touch of shyness there.

 

“I wrote the rest of the scene if you wanna take a look,” he tells me, grabbing his computer off the coffee table. A surprised _‘oh’_ escapes me as he hands me the open laptop. “Tell me what you think.” My eyes flit between the screen and his retreating form until the kitchen wall obscures my view of him. I feel a bit like a tag along on this project, but I tell myself it’s not fair of me to have expected him to stop working just because I had to go. I should be thankful he’s moving it forward.

 

Irritation aside, I peruse the new addition with unexpected appreciation. My cheeks warm and my skin prickles as I feel every word he’s written. Probably because I lived it. He’s described our entire experience, from the racy sounds they make to the placement of Adam’s hands on Julia’s hips, down to the end result of their hastiness and lack of self control. It makes me flush and I cross my legs to hide the ache between them. An ache I now know can be, and has been, soothed by the man in the next room.

 

_Moving on!_

 

The next part gets my attention, though, as it’s nothing like what happened between us.

 

_Julia laid her head on the arm of the sofa, her eyes fluttering in sated fatigue. The cushion next to her dipped with Adam’s weight, but she didn’t dare open her eyes. Her heart raced at his proximity, and she wondered what would happen next. Would he tell her to leave? Or would he hold her and soothe away the embarrassment that was creeping over her?_

 

_She had her answer when he slipped in between her and the back of the couch, molding their forms together, from chest to knees to feet. He placed a gentle kiss on the skin at the crook of her neck and asked her to stay with him. Delirious with the relief she felt, Julia grinned, wiggling even closer against him and whispered, “Always.”_

 

“So?” A voice floats over my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. I whip my head around and see Peeta standing behind me with a glass of water. He holds it out for me, but I don’t really see it. As if my earlier guilt wasn’t enough, he has to literally spell it out for me.

 

“This is… great, Peeta.” I hear the hesitation in my own voice, and I hope he doesn’t mistake it. His way with words is amazing, but the end of the scene feels off to me.

 

“Thanks,” he says sincerely. I make a quick edit, switching out one word for a better one, before I tell him the rest of what’s on my mind.

 

“It’s beautifully written, I can’t argue that,” I start with a compliment because he’s been nothing but nice to me since I got here, “but I disagree with Julia’s easy acceptance of all she’s just done. She should question herself, and maybe even Adam’s intentions. He’s an experienced person. What does he want with a virgin who barely knows her own anatomy?” I physically feel my face redden with my thinly veiled admission.

 

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully at me. “What about him would cause her to question his motives?”

 

Without thinking, I answer, “Because they hate each other?” Coworkers up for the same promotion that have a history of competition and one-upping each other aren’t exactly primed for an easy-going romance. Even I can see that.

 

“Doesn’t seem like it to me,” he says, setting the glass of water down on the small table next to me. He moves to sit on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees, clasped hands thoughtfully rubbing back and forth on his chin. “I think he’s never really hated her. I think he just acted that way all along because she’s snarky and it’s the only interaction she allowed him to have, so he took it.”

 

“Julia isn’t snarky,” I defend her, even though there was no malice in Peeta’s observation. But she’s a reflection of me, after all, and I don’t see myself that way. “She’s just focused.”

 

“You’re right. She’s been focused on work, and that’s admirable. But she’s been too focused to notice Adam has been watching her, that he’s interested. That he knows little things about her, like the way she takes her coffee or that she favors a certain pair of jeans. How she interacts with everyone. He’s taking what he can get on _her_ terms, whether Julia realizes she’s set them or not.”

 

I think about what Peeta is saying, and I find myself willing to explore this new idea. We’re not so far into the story that we can’t add some background. Julia’s characterization is solid, but Adam is more of a mystery. “How far do these feelings go back?”

 

“Since the first time he saw her.” Peeta’s reply is quick and easy.

 

It makes no sense to me, so I ask, “Why has he hidden it all this time? Why has he acted as if he can’t stand being in the same room with her if he feels the opposite?”

 

Peeta drags his nails along his jaw, looking thoughtful before answering with a slight shrug. “He’s intimidated by her? He thinks she’s beautiful and strong. And she hasn’t exactly been nice to him, either.”

 

My temper flares a bit at his answer. “Well, no, she hasn’t, but to be fair, he got a raise and she didn’t, but she works just as hard as he does.”  Listening to my own words, I know we’re not talking about Adam and Julia anymore. The situation reminds me of ours in a ‘same but different’ kind of way.

 

“Are you hungry?” he asks me, seemingly out of nowhere, to which I reply a befuddled, “huh?”

 

His mouth twitches and it looks like he might smile, but then it’s gone before he says, “I haven’t eaten, and I’m feeling like a sandwich.You want one?” My gaze follows him when he stands, eyes connected with mine as he waits for an answer.

 

“I guess,” I say unconvincingly. He nods, then starts for the kitchen. “Do you need help?” I call after him, hating that I feel like he’s waiting on me. I can’t cook worth a damn but I can slap together two pieces of bread around meat and cheese.

 

“Nah, I got it. Why don’t you work on the next part?”

 

That I can do.

 

Leaving him to the cooking, or rather the putting-together, I read back through the all too familiar setting. Inspiration hits me for the morning after scene, and it’s not hard to summon the feelings I struggled with when I woke up. Julia may not have run off like I did, and in hindsight maybe I shouldn’t have, but she would certainly question her actions, even feel confused about her feelings for Adam. I place my fingers on the keys, and let the words flow.

 

_Julia snuggles into the solid warmth at her back, unaware of her surroundings until something tightens around her waist. Sleepy eyes widen in alarm at the unfamiliar touch. Taking in her surroundings she realizes she isn’t at home, and panic whips through her when she remembers  where she is, and what she’s done. Everything she experienced with Adam last night had been a ‘first’ - first kiss, first hands exploring her body, first ever orgasm. It had been an incredible feeling - one she knows she’ll want to experience again._

 

_As good as all of those things felt in the moment, the dawn of reality is hitting Julia hard. She rarely shows a vulnerable side. Did she expose too much to Adam last night? Will he judge her inexperience? She knows she’ll be found lacking if he does, and just the thought of that puts a tiny tear in her heart. Even worse, what if he never wants to be around her again? It’s no secret they weren’t the best of friends before this, but if that happens she will never be able to look him in the eye again and, oddly enough, that makes her sad._

 

_She can’t think with him so close; can’t process what’s real and what’s not. Apprehension begins to fill every space in her mind - and there were plenty - not already occupied by courage or dignity. Untangling herself gently from his grasp, Julia quietly slips out the door._

 

There. She leaves anyway. I don’t know how Peeta will feel about what I’ve written, and I can only hope it’s positive, but it’s just not realistic for Julia to think everything will be perfect the day after she dry humps a man she’s always tried to avoid and then sleeps cocooned against him, no matter how nice he seemed to be during their couch time.

 

I write another hundred or so words, closing out the scene with a few more of Julia’s insecurities and a sleepless night spent debating her feelings. Easy enough considering it was something I had dwelt on almost fourteen hours ago. I’m a little freaked by the similarities and the ease with which this is coming to me. I know I’m projecting myself into my character, but I can’t steer it in a different direction. It’s what I know.

 

Inspiration drained, I sit back and wonder what’s taking Peeta so long. My stomach grumbles quietly as the scent of dinner settles around me. It’s been lurking around me the whole time, but my focus on my writing seems to have dulled my sense of smell.

 

Peeta appears in the doorway, two plates in hand, as if conjured by my hungry thoughts. I briefly wonder what’s taken him so long in there, but as he comes closer I notice these aren’t hastily made pb&js. They look like works of art. I accept the plate and study it silently.

 

Thick slabs of bread are buttered, toasted, and speckled with some kind of seasonings that are bringing  nose to life. In between the bread are strips of bacon and chicken, a juicy red tomato and some leafy green lettuce, covered by a slice of white cheese that’s obviously melted by the way it’s drooping down around the meats and veggies.

 

“Is it okay? I can make you something else if you want…” He looks nervous, and I realize I’ve just been staring at the plate in my hand. I must seem so ungrateful.

 

“Oh, no! I was just... I’ve never seen anything look this good is all. It’s almost too pretty to eat,” I tell him honestly. “Almost,” I add, and the smile that quirks up the corners of my mouth surprises me.

 

Peeta sits on the couch, eyes on me as I take my first bite. It’s so delicious I can’t stop the groan that starts deep in my throat. My eyelids flutter closed as my taste buds experience a level of food porn they’ve never imagined. Maybe they should write our story.

 

“Oh my god, Peeta. This is amazing.” When I open my eyes he’s still staring at me, his lips pressed together in a tight line before his tongue sneaks out to wet them. It catches me off guard, and as good as this sandwich is, I know he tastes better. Not in a taste bud explosion kind of way, but like a tremor in my insides sensation. The kind that warns you to take cover right before an earth-shattering quake that could drastically alter the landscape.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, um, glad you - glad you like… it.” I don’t know Peeta as well as I could, never really wanted to before now, but one thing I do know about him is that he’s never at a loss for words. His speech at our high school graduation was eloquent. Had a seething annoyance not been simmering inside me, it would have made me feel something a little magical. He received a standing ovation, that day, so it’s interesting that simple words evade him now, and it sparks a kind of challenge in me to see if I can do it again.

 

I watch him take a bite, eyes drawn to the way his lips wrap around the golden bread. The way his teeth sink into the warm layers. A string of cheese catches at the corner of his lips and he licks it clean. Now I’m the one staring. I feel like we’re facing off in a competition to see who can make the other more turned on. It’s probably just my imagination, but then he looks at me over the sandwich and I swear his eyes are daring me to deny it.

 

I don’t know the first thing about flirting, much less foreplay, but in my ‘research’, aka reading porn, I noticed that if a girl can draw attention to her lips, it’s hard for a guy to ignore them. I pluck at a piece of gooey cheese and twist it around my finger until it unravels from my sandwich, dropping my eyes from him because I’m not confident enough to conduct this experiment while we’re staring at each other. Then I stick my finger in my mouth and slowly pull it back, sucking the cheese off. “Mmmmm. It’s so good,” I tell him, going for sexy but not a hundred percent sure I am hitting the mark. What I _am_ sure of, though, is that Peeta Mellark is like an earthquake in the middle of my life, altering my landscape.

 

I look at him to gauge his reaction. It’s almost comical, and I might even laugh if it weren’t for the sheer terror clawing its way to the surface. The excessively visible whites of his eyes, the way his jaw hangs open, sandwich frozen just below his chin, as if he was going to take a bite but now he can’t remember where his mouth is. I think I’m playing way out of my league now, though. I make a mental note _not_ to draw attention to my mouth again. It works just like in the book, but I’m ill prepared for the way it works on _me_.

 

We seem to have fallen into a trance. Neither of us is eating. If we want to continue being the adults we say we are and avoid a repeat of yesterday, then I need to do the responsible thing and break it. I clear my throat and tell him his sandwich is going to get cold if he doesn’t eat it soon. He finally blinks, his eyes flitting down to his food.

 

“Well, thank you. For the sandwich,” I tell him sincerely, setting it down after taking a few more bites. I’m really hungry and I’ve only eaten half of it, but we need to get back to work. “Here’s what I wrote.”

 

He sets his plate down as well and takes the computer from me, patting the cushion next to him. The very one from last night. I sit, not wanting to be rude, and watch him as his eyes scan the words, narrowing every now and then while his lips twitch with what I can only assume is consideration. I wait, not so patiently, for his review as he puts the computer down and picks up his sandwich again. By the time he speaks I’m about to combust with anxiety.

 

“Well?” I ask, prompting him to break this unnerving silence.

 

“It’s… good. Are you sure you want her to leave like that?” he asks before taking a bite. His question is cautious and he only looks at me briefly before concentrating back on the screen. And we’ve come full circle to the original discussion.

 

“I think... “ I pause, trying to figure out how to say what I want to say and not make it personal. “ _She_ thinks that she’s done something wrong. It’s unfamiliar territory for her and she isn’t sure if he liked it. And she’s just supposed to wake up next to him and - what? Talk about the weather? I don’t think she’d wait around for him to tell her it was a mistake.”

 

Peeta chews his food, staring at me the whole time like I have three eyeballs. I have no idea what’s going on in his head, but the longer this tension thickens, the more I brace myself for a certain argument. An argument he won’t win because I’m sending all of my reasons, armed and ready to fire, to the front lines to protect myself. He sets the sandwich down and picks up his napkin, crumpling it between his fingers.

 

“Alright,” he says, and all my little soldiers vanish like traitorous cowards. Now I have no response. I was ready to defend, but the simple white flag he’s raised renders me completely at his mercy. Open and vulnerable. It’s a place I never let myself go but, oddly enough, I’m not itching to be free of it. _Him_.

 

“But... you should know that a guy never dislikes it when a girl gets him off.” The apples of his cheeks turn a little pink beneath my curious stare and he tears off little pieces of the paper napkin. “Of course, it’s a little embarrassing when it happens in his pants instead.”

 

My little soldiers reappear, waving their own white flags, and I surrender to my curiosity. “So then, you… liked it?” I don’t want my eyes to be fixated on his, but they won’t look away. I can’t breathe and it suddenly feels like the middle of summer inside his apartment. I reach up and tug absently on a collar that doesn’t exist.

 

His low chuckle pulls me out of my own head. “Katniss, I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I mean, once I got past the fact that you left without so much as a goodbye.”

 

His gentle reprimand stings, but it’s not his fault. It’s mine, and the apology I should have given him earlier is staring me in the face. “Look, Peeta, I’m sorry for leaving like I did. It had nothing to do with you, and what we- you know.” I suck at talking, but Peeta waits patiently for me to continue.

 

“I just- I don’t know how to do or be _that._ Honestly I didn’t even know I wanted to until… you know.”

 

Peeta’s mouth quirks up in a smirk, but it’s sweet instead of arrogant like I’m used to seeing on him. “You want me?” He’s teasing, I think, but it tongue-ties me just the same.

 

I’m about to lie to try and cover the truth I’m certain is written across my face - that yes, I do want him, but what I’ll do with him when I get him is a mystery to me - when he speaks again.

 

“Can I ask you a question?” I nod once, hoping it’s an easy one. “Why do you hate me? If I’ve done something to upset you, I’d like the chance to at least apologize for it.”

 

Nope. Not easy at all. In fact, it’s the most difficult question he could’ve asked because the answer is all twisted up in my memories and opinions. It’s not all factual. The only truth I can go on is that he got the money I desperately needed.

 

“You can’t.” He looks baffled at my confession. “Apologize for it, I mean. You didn’t do anything. Not really. It was me, I was-” How much do I reveal? What parts do I keep buried inside me, never to see the light of day?

 

I don’t mean to let it all out, but once I start, I can’t stop. One confession is connected to the next in a puzzle I have to solve piece by jagged piece or it won’t make sense at all. I tell him everything from my past family troubles to the $2.10 in my bank account as of today.

 

When I’m done, I’m spent and I realize how much baggage I’ve been carrying around all these years. It feels so good to actually _talk_ to someone.

 

Peeta blows out a deep breath and I can only imagine he’s trying to process the pile I’ve just dumped on him. There definitely won’t be any more kisses or couch time after that confession. He’ll probably toss me out if his house any minute, but he surprises me as time drags on and he doesn't.

 

“I'm sorry you didn't win the scholarship, Katniss, I truly am. I wish we both could have received one. But…” he pauses, his eyes bouncing around the room until they land on me again. He continues to tear at the napkin, little bits of it floating to the floor around his feet. “I can't say I'm sorry it was me.”

 

I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but it’s not that.

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” he hesitates again, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully as he concentrates on the coffee table or the rug underneath, “I needed that scholarship.” Then it all comes pouring out, a soul in need of cleansing. “People always assume the Mellarks have money, and my mother would have liked it to stay that way. She wanted out of the bakery business. Wanted me to buy it from them. They wouldn’t pay for college because they were leaving me a legacy, or so she said. _No need to waste all that money,_ ” he says sharply, and I can only imagine he’s repeating his mother. “She had almost badgered me into it when I happened to come across her financial ledger.”

 

There is pain etched across his brow and I can only imagine it’s there in his beautiful blue eyes as well.

 

“The bakery was in a huge amount of debt, and so were my parents. They’d taken out a home equity loan every five or so years for the last three decades, not to mention a massive loan against the bakery itself.” He laughs derisively and shakes his head. “My own mother was trying to trick me into paying off their debts, and send me into bankruptcy soon after.”

 

“What about your dad?”

 

“He didn’t know. Mother has always been in charge of the books. She likes to keep up a certain appearance in the community, and while the bakery did well enough to support a family or two, even set them up for retirement, it couldn’t afford my mother’s tastes.”

 

“Your poor father!” I don’t realize how literal the words are until they’re out of my mouth, but Peeta doesn’t seem to notice. He’s lost in the mess of his own mother’s sabotage. My mother isn’t perfect, but she’s never done anything like that to me. If anything, her neglect forced me to grow up and think for myself.

 

Peeta sighs, the last tiny piece of the napkin leaving his hands to join its shredded family. “Yeah, he was devastated to say the least. He thought he was close to retirement, and to find out that he had to work the rest of his days, plus sell off everything he thought he owned.... It was rough.”

 

His admission sheds new light on my bitterness towards him, and once it’s out of the shadows I see it for what it really is - pettiness. Childish and narrow-minded. I may have had it rough and paid my own way, but neither my family nor myself is in as much trouble as his. And it helped Peeta steer clear of an awful situation. I hate to think of him saddled with all that debt and family baggage for years to come.

 

I'm not certain of the exact moment I began to see Peeta under the light of something other than animosity, but I know I don't hate him. _Can't_ hate him, try as I might. He’s just not hateable. He’s not even a little _dislikable_.

 

I think I just joined the Peeta Mellark fan club. The same fan club that gave him the scholarship and fawned over all his charm and accomplishments. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’ll have to analyze it later, because right now, I just want to ease his pain. I place my hand on his knee and he stares down at it. “I’m glad it was you,” I say softly. And I am. I just wish I could have been glad about it four years ago. Maybe we could have been friends instead of… whatever we are now.

 

“Thank you, Katniss.” He gives me a smile that’s not sad, but not quite happy either. It’s more… apologetic, even though he has nothing to be sorry for. I want to tell him that, but I don’t have time to write it down, so I squeeze his knee instead, hoping he understands that I understand.

 

Somehow, in all our confessing, I’ve drifted closer to him so that when he turns to look at me our faces are only inches apart.

 

His eyes flutter closed and when he opens them again they’re focused on my lips. It makes me self conscious and I can’t help but bite my bottom one. I feel warm. There’s a heat stirring inside me that’s creeping up my chest and neck like a vine. His tongue peeks out, swiping across his own lips. My eyes track the movement. Before I know it, I’m leaning in, my gaze concentrated on his delicious-looking mouth because I’m not brave enough to look him in the eyes. I’m barely brave enough to admit to myself I'm about to initiate this kiss, break the promise I never should have made to myself.

 

Our lips touch. It’s gentle. Unsure. When I pull away because I don’t know what else to do his eyes flutter back open. “Don’t stop,” he says and his husky voice pulls me back in like metal to his magnet. This time my lips part over his as my mind reaches back to last night, remembering how he kissed me. Made me want more. But he takes control and his mouth is so _good_ at what it’s doing. He’s soft, slow and very thorough, coaxing the sparks between us to life with his tongue.

 

I’m so lost in the kiss I don’t even open my eyes when he stops. I don’t want to. I want him to come back and finish what he started, but before I can complain or beg for more he says, “I better get you home.”

 

I blink up at him, the lust cloud clearing away at the sting of his rejection.

 

“ _Don’t_ think too hard,” he tells me, tapping my temple lightly with his finger. “I like you, Katniss, and I don’t want to give you a reason to run away again.” He winks at me and smiles. His eyes crinkle endearingly at the corners, the blue in them a little darker than usual and shining with mirth. Something I want to see in them always. It dissolves any kind of trepidation I had.

 

Then he brushes the hair back from my ear and leans in, his lips dragging across the outer shell when he speaks, causing my skin to prickle with goosebumps. “We’re going to take this slow, Katniss. Very. _Very_. Slow.”

 

A shiver races through me at his words, heading straight for that sweet spot I discovered last night, and fuck it all _,_ I think I just became his fan club president.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 4 in its entirety. It's posted in chunks over on Tumblr, but I decided I have enough for a whole chapter. Mistakes are mine. See you on the flip side - Pbg

What the hell am I reading? I toss the book aside and try to forget about the alien species commingling with human women as they take over the world with their disappearing magic lube, never-ending sexual appetite and nanocytes that heal the bruises they leave behind from their love-making. If it can be called that.

 

None of that garbage is going to help me write the next scene. _The_ scene. The one I have zero experience with. Every time I sit down to write it I get nervous and edgy. But I need _something_ written down that at least Peeta can make changes to. He won’t be much help to me this week since he’s busy finishing up an art project that’s due at the same time. I told him not to worry, that I would wrap things up on this end so he could focus elsewhere.

 

I was relieved at first, but now I’m just stuck and the more time that passes with no new words appearing in the doc, the more I wish I had his insight. And not just professionally. I want the knowledge of what it is I’m supposed to be writing poured into me from his hands and his lips.

 

I think about the last time we worked on the project almost five days ago. He’d promised we would take things slow and my insides had done a happy, albeit nervous, jig. He’d eradicated any hatred I’d felt for him that day, which must not have been much when I think about how easily he’s rooted himself inside me. Made me look forward to his help when I’ve always worked alone. Since then we’ve only seen each other in class. And damn it if I haven’t laid awake every night wondering when it’s going to happen.

 

It cost me fifty bucks I really didn’t have, but I was able to get my computer fixed at the tech lab on campus, so we don’t need to share a computer anymore. Peeta emails me every night to check in on how the story is going and asks how my day was. I answer with the mundane details of class and work, wishing I were more vibrant and interesting, and fudge a little about Julia’s and Adam’s progress, then wait for a reply. It always comes within a few minutes.

 

Thinking about it, I open my computer and log into gmail. Nothing yet, but he’s probably not finished with his day. I don’t normally hear from him until close to 10:00 PM, and it’s only 8:45. I know what I need to do, so I take a deep breath and prepare to be honest with him about the story. About how I’m struggling and could use his help, but I don’t want to take him away from his art project. When I’m done, I read over it, delete parts, add more, edit, edit, edit. A writer’s life for me, I guess. I can’t even put together a simple email until it’s been beta’d like it’s being published in the New York Times. I glance at the clock. 9:30. It’s taken me 45 minutes to relay my honesty to my partner.

 

I don’t let myself obsess over it anymore and hastily click ‘send’, the swooshing sound ringing in my ears and setting my nerves off. I tell myself it’s fine. We both want an A and Peeta knows I’m limited in this area. If he can help, I don’t doubt he will.

 

I’m filling in all the unsexy parts of the story when I receive his reply.

 

_Katniss,_

 

_I’ll be done in an hour. I can swing by your place and we can talk about it?_

 

_Peeta_

 

I reply quickly with ‘see you soon’ and where he can find my room, then set about tidying the space. It doesn’t take long since it’s so small, just a studio with a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom, but I don’t have to share it with a roommate. When I’m done I sit on my daybed that doubles as my couch and rearrange the order of the pillows a few times, checking which formation looks the fullest.

 

I brush my teeth and change into fresh clothes since I’ve been wearing the same ones all day. Black yoga pants and a loose, t-back midriff seem to say that I’m comfortable and confident even though I feel nothing of the sort. I go with it, ignoring the hesitancy blooming over the sliver of toned stomach I’m showing and my bare shoulders and arms. I tug on the hem, but that provides an easy view of my cleavage and I suddenly feel self-conscious. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. A long sleeved turtleneck that covers my butt might be better in such a confined space with a hot guy who makes my stomach flutter.

 

I’m about to whip it over my head when the knock comes at my door. I freeze, panicked and glance at the clock. 10:42. He’s early. No time to change now. I take one last look in the mirror and cringe at the messy braid I forgot to fix, so I take out the band and run my fingers quickly  through the dark strands in an effort to make it presentable, then stand in front of the door with my hand on the knob and count to three.

 

The door swings open and Peeta stands on the other side. My breath whooshes out of my chest at how adorable he looks. Tousled hair, backpack slung over one shoulder, a grin in place that’s warm and curious. His eyes seem tired, though.  

 

“Hey,” he greets me, and I remember I should invite him in. I step aside, widening the door and he crosses into the room, setting his bag down next to my desk. He turns and I see his gaze sweep over me quickly.

 

“Thanks for coming, Peeta. I know you’re busy with other things.”

 

“I’m a little tired.” He admits what I already detected as one of his hands reaches for the back of his neck. “But I’ve been waiting for an excuse to see you.”

 

My cheeks heat up at his sweet words. I want to tell him he doesn’t need an excuse, he can come over any time, but I don’t. I confessed more to him a few days ago than I have to anyone, _ever_. I’m confessed out at this point. Instead, I grab a pen and my notepad, because sometimes I just need to hand write my ideas, and plop down on the couch, trying hard not to think of it as a bed. Also, if he kisses me tonight I don’t care if pen and paper fall to the floor. Hell, I could chuck them across the room if I feel like it.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Um, sure,” he says hesitantly as his arm falls to his side. I know I probably made a mistake by not acknowledging his kind words, but it’s just so hard for me to say things out loud that bare my feelings. Writing is always safest.

 

The bed - _couch!_ \- dips next to me when he sits. He’s quiet, waiting for me I suppose.

 

“I think we should outline the scene exactly, so I’ll know how to proceed. Things like,” I pause, deciding how best to say what needs to be said. Why did I agree to this? My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s about to pass the speed of sound.

 

“It’s okay. You can say whatever it is.” His encouragement is soft, sweet. But I still find it hard to give voice to such sexual thoughts.

 

“Um, things like… where they are exactly, and maybe h-hand placement. Kissing, foreplay, body alignment. Those types of things that I’m not… really…” My mouth feels like a drought has taken up residence there, and I swallow to try and regain some moisture.

 

His hand on mine stops my frantic doodling. Something I didn’t even realize I was doing.

 

“You don’t have to say anymore. I get it.” He takes my hand and sets it on his thigh. I watch as he runs his fingers back and forth between mine tenderly. It’s soothing and arousing all at once. “I know this is hard for you, Katniss, and I’m here for you, and for this project. You can trust me, okay?”

 

I blink and look up at him briefly. He’s so pretty. And charming. And so, so believable. I nod my head and remove my hand from his, hating every second afterwards that we’re not touching. Pen poised, I look at him for guidance.

 

“Okay, well, let’s think about this. People don’t generally start out with sex. There’s a lead up. Where are they right now?”

 

“In the car,” I answer.

 

“Coming from?”

 

“Work.”

 

“Have they done anything besides work related things?” he asks.

 

“What do you mean?” I cock my head to the side slightly and tap my pen on the pad.

 

“Like, have they gone on a date or spent time together in a non-work environment,” he explains.

 

I shake my head and mumble something about adding that to the parts of life I know nothing about.

 

“You’ve never been on a date?” he asks in disbelief. I sigh, knowing that when I look at him I’ll see the tone of his question reflected in his pretty blue eyes. Eyes I’d rather _not_ find pity in. Our gazes connect and it’s there. It bothers me.

 

“Is it that hard to believe?” I ask with minor annoyance. More at myself for revealing yet another rite of passage I’m apparently missing out on than with Peeta.

 

“Well, yeah, but not for the reason you’re thinking. I just can’t see no guy ever asking you out. Katniss, you have no idea.” He shakes his head slowly, like he’s willing me to understand. But I don’t and I’m too embarrassed to continue this part of the conversation.

 

“Can we just talk about the outline please?” I ask quietly as I doodle a triangle in the corner of my notepad and fill it in.

 

He rubs his palms over this thighs distractedly, but I can feel his eyes on me. It seems like he wants to say more but, thankfully, he doesn’t. “Okay. Yeah, so let’s, uh, send them on a date. Someplace nice. Adam is trying to show her he really doesn’t hate her, so he would put some effort into it. Low lighting, ambience, table for two in the corner...”

 

I write down everything he’s just said and when I’m finished I glance up, glad we’re moving on. “Next?”

 

“He should drive her home after that, and she can ask him to come inside. That’s kind of how a guy knows his date might want some intimacy.” I stare at him as he explains further. “Something more than a goodnight kiss under the porchlight.”

 

 _Invites him inside,_ I write before waiting for more instruction.

 

“She can offer him wine or a beer. That might help relax the situation if one of them is nervous.” It definitely would, I think, remembering how quickly my inhibitions had flown out the window the first time we kissed. My cheeks flame and I don’t look back up.

 

“They sit on the be- _couch_?” I offer, inwardly scolding myself that I almost said _bed_. I see Peeta shrug through my peripheral.

 

“Sure, if you want things to start there, but they’d probably move to the bedroom at some point.”

 

“She lives in a studio. Kind of like this place,” I tell him, waving my arm around. He knows I’ve basically formed Julia’s character from my own life, so this admission doesn’t take any skin off my nose.

 

“Right,” he says right before he yawns. I feel terrible. He’s obviously been running on little sleep and now he’s here, helping me when he should be in bed.  

 

“Do you want some coffee?” I ask him, nodding to the single cup, hand-me-down machine I keep on my desk, stifling my own yawn. He’s contagious.

 

“No, thanks,” he says sleepily, curling up behind me on the… _couch._ His arm slips around my waist and he pulls me down with him, my back against his chest. “Let’s just take a quick nap and then we’ll finish up, k?”

 

I lay there for a minute, trying to figure out what I should do, but before I can answer or move I hear his breathing even out, soft puffs of air on the back of my neck. Even if I weren’t sleepy and we didn’t have a deadline fast approaching for this project, I don’t think I could move away from the warmth and comfort I feel with his body wrapped around mine. It’s been too long since someone has held me, and never in the way Peeta is now.

 

I take a deep breath, my body relaxing further into him, giving in to his wish. He’s right. A nap is a perfect idea.

 

 

I’m warm, and comfortable. And flat on my stomach with my face in the mattress. The sun is peeking through the tiny slits in the blinds over my bed. There’s a soft snore next to me and I open one eye, letting a slow smile take over my face. Blonde bed hair sticks up from beneath arms as Peeta lays face down with his head buried in a pillow, elbows jutting out from underneath it. I normally enjoy sleeping alone, but that’s obviously because I have no idea what I’m missing.

 

Oddly, I’m not alarmed in the slightest by his presence on my couch - _bed_. I’m also not ready to remove myself from this scenario, so I roll towards him and lift his arm, burrowing into him. He releases a soft groan and repositions himself on his side so we fit together better, then tightens his hold on me. I don’t want to disturb our peace, so I say nothing. Neither does he.

 

I must fall back asleep because I’m jolted awake by a surprised Peeta sitting straight up, and I almost tumble off the side of the bed and onto the floor. He grabs my waist and when we lock eyes my stomach falls. His eyes are wide and wild, like he doesn’t know where he is. I hope it’s not regret I see there.

 

“Wh-what time is it?” he asks, pushing his hair back with his hands before glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Shit,” he mutters, climbing from the bed and grabbing his things. I sit up slowly, unsure of what I should say. I was content just moments ago, but now I’m beginning to wish he hadn’t stayed last night, even though we did nothing but sleep.

 

“Can I use your bathroom real quick?” he asks. I nod and point, unable to find my voice even for such a simple word as ‘yes’.

 

While he’s in the restroom I quickly plait my hair into a side braid, then start a cup of coffee in a to-go cup. Moments later he emerges from the small space, hair tidier-looking, eyes less groggy. His clothes are rumpled but he’s still handsome as ever. We stand still, staring at each other awkwardly, both of us clearly struggling for something to say.

 

“I hope you don’t mind. I, um, borrowed some toothpaste,” he says first.

 

“Uh, no. No that’s fine,” I tell him. The coffee maker gurgles and spits behind me, signaling that it’s finished. As I look at it I get an idea to give it to him, hoping it might erase some of this weirdness between us. Surely he could use a pick me up, and I have time to make another cup anyway. I reach for it and turn back towards him, extending my meager offering. If anyone would have told me that my senior year of college I’d fall for Peeta Mellark and be begging the universe not to let things get strange between us, I would have laughed in their face. And then spit on their shoes. But here I am.

 

“Coffee?” I meet his eyes every few seconds, relieved when an easy smile lifts his lips. Our fingers brush when he accepts it, but instead of retreating he steps closer to me.

 

“Thank you.” My breathing halts as he reaches up and runs his fingers over my hair, down my braid that curls around my neck and ends just above my left breast. He leans in slowly and I’m rooted in place as he brushes his lips across mine. It’s the faintest touch, but the desire it flares inside me is unmistakable. “I’ll see you in class?” His whisper tingles against my lips.

 

My senses are so skewed I can barely afford him a nod. He lays his forehead against mine and sighs. “If I didn’t have class in ten minutes…” he trails off, leaving me guessing as to how he would have finished that sentence. I want to ask him, but before I can he kisses me. Just a press of lips together, nothing that should feel as intriguing as it does. It’s innocent and pure, yet the feeling it elicits in me is anything but.

 

“See you soon,” he says, releasing me. And then he’s closing my door with a soft click, leaving me alone. Something I used to appreciate but at the moment I have a distinct disdain for.

 

I collapse back on the bed and groan into the emptiness. When I roll over I can smell him on my pillow. If I wrap an arm around it, close my eyes I can almost pretend it’s him. Almost. If it weren’t for the downy fluff where Peeta is solid, and the cooling material no substitute for the warmth he provides.

 

I have two hours until my first class so instead of wishing he would come back, which will do nothing but make my day drag on, I pull out my laptop and begin to write. The words are sweeter than I’ve managed before, flowing straight from the experience I’ve recently had. There’s nothing sexual and everything sensual about the scene with Julia and Adam as they fall asleep together. The affection he shows is comforting to her and the feelings surrounding this part of the story are pulling her into a game she’s never played before. A game with rules she’s not familiar with. I feel her butterflies as acutely as if we are sharing the same stomach, and for the first time, I’m excited to see what happens with these two.

 

I slip into class a little late, which is still early compared to most people’s definition of being on time. The room is already filling up with students. I try not to find Peeta with my eyes  but it’s futile. He’s there, planted in the seat next to mine with his laptop already out and his bag on the desk I always sit at, saving my place.

 

His smile lights up the room as I near and he reaches for his bag so I can sit down.

 

“Hi,” I say, proud that I spoke first. Or that I was able to speak at all with him looking at me like that. The sunshine pouring out of him that once caused me misery now beckons me like a seedling breaking the Earth’s surface for the first time, desperately in need of vitamin D.

 

“Hey.”

 

We share a few glances at each other and an awkward smile, or at least mine feels awkward. Peeta looks like he could be a smile model. Straight white teeth, pink lips and a dimple that punctuates the joviality he always seems to exude. But before we can have any kind of conversation Effie greets the class and begins the day’s lecture.

 

Our laptops are open and my fingers are flying across the keyboard, trying to keep up with Effie’s speaking pace. when the tab of my open story doc starts blinking. Curious, I switch screens and see a message from Peeta in the chat box.

 

_This is shaping up really nice. ;)_

 

A quick glance at his screen shows he’s taking notes as well, but I can see several open tabs there. He must have been reading while I was taking notes. I reply _‘thanks’_ and send it, staring at the lonely word that conveys very little of what I’m feeling. I may be the one putting the words down, but he’s been a fundamental part of the tone and the direction, not to mention some of the experience I’ve been given. Just thinking about it warms my cheeks, so I touch them with cool hands, stopping short of fanning myself lest Peeta look over and read my face for the open book it seems to be.

 

I’m about to go back to writing notes when three dots begin to dance in the corner of the chat, signaling Peeta typing.

 

 _What are you doing tonight?_ is the message he sends through. I reply that I’m going to write the date scene.

 

_P - I have plans to help with that…_

 

_K - Don’t you have to work on your art project?_

 

_P - It can wait a few hours._

 

It warms me to know that he’s not just leaving me to write the rest of our project, that he cares enough to put his other project on hold, even if I am willing to finish it on my own.

 

_K - Cool. Your place or mine?_

 

_P - We’ll start at your place. ;) I’ll be there at 6._

 

His icon closes out and he’s gone, leaving me to wonder what he’s planning. Start at my place?

 

I spend the rest of class unable to pay attention to the lecture, and more than a little annoyed that Peeta can have that effect on me. What is happening? I used to be so focused on school and my goals. Now all my senses seem to be sharpened in his direction.

 

We’re finally dismissed and I gather my things, ignoring Peeta as he packs up beside me. I’m determined to get my wandering mind and eyes back under control.

 

“So I’ll see you tonight?” he asks.

 

“Sure,” I answer. Even though I’m avoiding his gaze I can feel the warm smile radiating from him.

 

_Don’t look._

 

I can see his jean-covered legs out of the corner of my eye. As I’m bent over my backpack I realize I’m eye level with his… _that_. A barrage of words describing it come to mind thanks to my recent project research. I’m glad for my embarrassment, even though he can’t read my thoughts - I hope - because now nothing can make me look him in the eyes. Though I’m no less distracted than if I were looking at him.

 

I throw my pack over my shoulder and start to walk towards the exit. I can feel Peeta behind me, his hand hovering at my lower back, but he doesn’t touch me. His scent wraps around me as we move with the crowd. It’s mildly sweet and extremely intoxicating. At one point, the students in front of me stop abruptly, bottlenecked into the doorway and Peeta is so close he bumps into me, throwing me off balance. But his arms are there to steady me, coiling around my waist and he doesn’t let go. It reminds me of last night and this morning, and I’m tempted to lay my head back on his shoulder, but the crowd surges forward again and Peeta’s arms fall away. I’m wondering how I can get us back into a crowded area when he stops me.

 

“I’m this way,” he says, angling his head in the direction opposite of my next class.

 

“Okay. Bye, Peeta.” It’s a lame reply, but it’s all I’ve got. Everything he does or says catches me off guard. I should be getting used to it by now. Able to formulate a response in the face of utter charm and those beguiling grins of his. I can’t tell if the blinders fell away when our mutual animosity faded, or if they’ve just been replaced by rose colored goggles, but I know I’ve never looked at Peeta Mellark this way in the entire time I’ve known him.

 

He smiles again and waves, then takes off. I glance at my watch and sigh as I mentally calculate the time between now and 6:00 PM. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

 

 

I’m lounging in my room doing some literary research for the sex scene while I wait for Peeta to come over. I changed from jeans to yoga pants back to jeans before I made myself stop and do something that would actually help our story along. I shouldn’t care what he or anyone else thinks of how I look. I never have before.

 

The kissing is turning to petting when a knock startles me and I shove the trashy novel underneath my pillow and hop from the bed like I’ve been caught. It take a few seconds for my breath to even out, but then I swing open the door to see Peeta on the other side holding a handful of wildflowers and the slow excitement that was building in me moments ago while reading the sensual words goes to warp speed. He’s so handsome it physically hurts. The red checkered button down he’s wearing is a stark, but beautiful contrast to his blue eyes and his dark wash jeans mold to his thighs perfectly.

 

“For you,” he says, holding out the flowers. I stare at them too long without taking them and he pulls them back. “You don’t like them?”

 

I realize my mistake too late, but I reach for them anyway. “No, that’s not it. I just, no one has ever brought me flowers before.” My voice trails off at the end with embarrassment. The girls in high school used to get them on Valentine’s and birthdays. I always rolled my eyes and told myself it was frivolous and stupid, but the way my stomach is dipping and soaring is a study in contrast to those beliefs.

 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” I tell him, mostly because an awkward silence has fallen between us.

 

“I wanted to,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Pretty girls should be given flowers.” He blushes and it seems as contagious as if he’d yawned. I feel my own heating up.

 

“Are you coming in?” I ask and stand aside. He stays put and shakes his head.

 

“No can do. I’ve got a hot date.” My bottom jaw is suddenly so heavy I can’t stop it from dropping open and my gut seizes up with dread. A date? He got a date since mid-morning when he promised to help me with our story?

 

“Oh,” is all I can croak out. I’m frozen. I want to slam the door in his face and throw myself on the bed _\- couch! -_ but my appendages don’t seem capable of receiving communication from my brain right now.

 

“Well, okay,” I force out before I burst into tears as it dawns on me that I’ve been fooled by my nemesis. A flash of anger hits me like lightning, and I know I won’t be able to stand being in his presence. Ever again. “You know, I bet I can finish up this story while you concentrate on art. No need for us to meet up again.” Like a horror movie set in a cemetery, the bitterness I thought I’d buried suddenly rises from the dead and before I can stop myself I bite out, “Tell your _date_ I say hello.”

 

The door is almost closed when a booted foot wedges between it and the frame. I’m growing agitated and swing it back open growling “What?” at him.

 

He has the nerve to smile. That cocky, lopsided smile that makes his eyes twinkle and forms a stupid dimple in his left cheek. A dimple I feel like poking hard with my finger. I begin smacking the weeds against my thigh and envision the satisfaction I’ll feel when I drop them into the wastebasket.

 

“Hello.”

 

“You mean goodbye?” I say, growing more impatient for his absence. His grin widens and he  fucking _laughs!_ I should probably tell him to leave because I’m two seconds from losing all self control and he has no idea the danger he’s in.

 

“You said to tell my date ‘hello’, so I did.”

 

 _Wait, what?_ His eyes search my face and he clamps his lips together, which still turn up in a grin despite his efforts.

 

“You’re my date, Katniss,” he explains, clearly clued into my confusion by the look I’m wearing. “And if I weren’t convinced that you’d deck me right now, I’d kiss that scowl off your face.” His pulls his hands out of his pockets and pushed his sleeves up, revealing his forearms. Have they always been so muscular? And why am I so easily distracted by that?

 

“We’re going on a…”

 

“Date,” he finishes for me. “Come on, I’m starved.” He winks and extends a hand to me, which is like a magnet for my own as it joins his without hesitation. His touch is like a balm that soothes away the anxiety of the last few minutes and I instantly feel like I can breathe again.

 

I look at the flowers in my hand, a little less full than they were when he handed them to me, but still pretty enough to salvage, and tell him to wait before he can pull me out of the apartment. My hand screams it’s disapproval as he releases me and I scurry to set the flowers in a plastic cup I use to rinse my mouth when I brush my teeth, then grab the key to my room. My legs can’t seem to carry me back to his side fast enough. I only hope I don’t seem as anxious as I feel.

 

I can’t help it, though. Peeta Mellark is taking me on my first date.

 

 

Peeta hasn’t held my hand since he lead me to his Jeep from my room. Is it wrong to feel disappointed? I don’t know what the proper protocol is for a date, other than what he’s told me for our story. I wrote all of it down, obviously so I could write the scene correctly, but as we walk the too-long hallway I wonder if I should use it that information in real life.

 

We’re standing in front of my door, Peeta leaning against the frame watching me struggle with getting the key to turn in the lock when I decide to go for it.

 

“You want to come in?” I ask less boldly than it sounded in my head. My nerves get the better of me and I can’t make myself look at him. I’m grateful the key seems to be stuck so I can focus my nervous energy jiggling it about in hopes that it catches and lets me in, and all the while his words about taking things slowly taunt me. Who am I kidding? I’m out of my league here. Why did I ask him in? Ugh. Maybe the door will open into some alternate universe and swallow me and my embarrassment whole.

 

I’m about to kick the door in frustration when Peeta’s hand closes around mine and I still instantly.

 

“Allow me,” he says, removing my hands from the knob gently. The door clicks open with one turn of the key, but neither of us goes in. He still hasn’t answered me and I’m about to tell him nevermind, that I’m tired, but he puts his hand on my back and ushers me across the threshold and follows me in, closing the door behind him.

 

I turn, wrapping one arm around my middle as I latch onto the opposite elbow. I’ve never felt so awkward in my life. I may as well have metal headgear and a face full of acne for the way I’m acting.

 

Thankfully, I remember the next step of the scene Peeta described where Julia would offer Adam a beer, which I just so happen to have picked up from the store on my way home. It was the cheapest I could find and it still cost me everything in my wallet.

 

“Would you like a beer?” God I’m so obvious. I may as well just write ‘make out with me please’ across my forehead. If he catches on to what I’m doing he doesn’t show it, though.

 

“Sure,” he answers, thankfully giving me something to do besides stand in front of him like a gangly teen. I cross the room in four strides and pull two bottles from my ancient mini fridge.

 

“Thank you,” he says as he takes one from me. He pops the lid and hands it back to me, reaching for the other when I take it. He opens that one and brings it to his lips. “Should we sit?” he nods at the bed. _Couch?_

 

I take a long pull of my beer and decide I want it to be less of a couch and more of a bed. I nod and get comfortable. Peeta follows, leaving a small space between us.

 

“Thank you for tonight,” I say after another drink. My eyes meet his and I bite my lip to keep me afloat in the midst of his sea blue stare.

 

“Was your first official date all that you hoped for?” he questions with a smirk, but I see the doubt in his eyes. I would have missed it a few weeks ago. Thought he was mocking me and thrown back some snarky reply. But I know better now. The Peeta I've become fond of is kind, smart. His confidence is real, but so is his uncertainty. After all the achievements he’s managed in his young life, he’s still not sure he’ll be accepted.

 

 _I accept you, Peeta._ I hope he can feel my thoughts, because I haven’t had enough beer to say it out loud. Instead, i answer his question honestly.

 

“It was,” I admit as I roll over the evening in my mind. The restaurant was quaint, with a kind of understated elegance. We sat in a tiny booth in a corner, smooshed together like romantic lovers in a black and white movie. From shoulder to ankle we were deliciously inseparable while the light above our heads flickered occasionally, giving the impression that it might go out and plunge us into welcomed darkness. I won’t lie and say I didn’t imagine what I would do if that happened.

 

Peeta sets our empty beers on the nightstand, then threads his fingers through mine. Our palms are cool and damp from holding the beer.

 

“Any ideas for what we can do now?” I ask as he shifts towards me. The alcohol has loosened me up conversationally.

 

“Plenty,” he replies. My throat dries up at the huskiness of his voice. I need another drink. Water this time. Who knows what else I might say with another beer in me. “But I have to get going.” Either my heart or my lady parts are very disappointed. I have too little experience with both of those pieces of me to know which it is.

 

“You have to go?” No. It’s my heart. Something inside me is beginning to tear at his rejection. It’s not often I put myself out there. I thought I could read him. Damn that beer!

 

He nods, leaning into me, pausing just before his lips touch mine.

 

“Why?” I ask softly. I can smell the beer on his breath. I bet it tastes amazing on him. I’m about to close this menacing space between us and find out when he moves his lips to my jaw, pressing the slightest of kisses to the flesh there. His mouth is cool on my warming skin.

 

_Please don’t pull away._

 

“Because I told you we would go slow. And if I don’t go now, I don’t think I can keep my promise.”

 

I shiver at his confession as he pulls away. His countenance betrays every thread of composure he’s hanging on to. Dark eyes, tense jaw, chest rising faster than normal. According to my research, if I look down I’m liable to see a bulge from his… engorged…

 

He stands up, facing away from me. And thank god because I’m not sure I would have been able to keep my eyes from his groin. He grabs the beers and tosses them into the small trash can, then heads for the door, stopping to look back at me after he opens it.

 

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” he says it as if I’m going to tell him no. He has no idea I’m two seconds away from dragging him back to the bed and ordering that he kiss me senseless and stay with me again. I nod, not trusting myself with words.

 

He flashes me a gorgeous smile and then disappears. I fall back on the bed and let out a deep breath, wondering what I’m supposed to do now. I’m too wound up for sleep. Maybe another beer will help, and since Peeta’s not here it’s safe to assume I won’t make any stupid statements.

 

I open another beer and I’m halfway through it when I hear ringing. It’s a phone. On my desk.

 

I walk to it and see the number for ‘home’ flashing across the screen. Peeta must have left his cell phone. I wonder if the home it’s referring to is his or his mother’s. I shudder at the thought of hearing her hateful voice on the other end. I’ve never heard it before, but I imagine it sounds similar in tone to Ursula the Sea Witch. I let it go to voicemail, but it starts to ring again. What if it’s his father? Maybe I should answer in case there’s some sort of emergency. If they keep calling they might think he’s dead, and it would be awfully rude of me to let them worry like that.

 

Before I can answer, though, the call ends. But it begins again almost immediately.

 

“Hello?” I answer hesitantly after putting it to my ear.

 

“I thought you’d never answer.”

 

“Peeta?” I feel foolish for answering his phone now. Like I’ve somehow invaded his privacy.

 

“Were you expecting someone else?”

 

“I wasn’t _expecting_ anyone. I thought you left your phone and your parents were trying to contact you, and it wouldn’t stop ring-”

 

“I left it on purpose.”

 

“On purpose?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says easily.

 

“Didn’t get your fill of me yet?” _Shit_. I forgot about the second beer.

 

A deep, throaty laugh reaches me through the speaker. “I haven’t even gotten close to having my fill of you, Katniss.”

 

I flop down on my bed, my body too heavy for my legs between the alcohol and the heady effect his words are having on me.  

 

“You got home safe, I guess?” I change the subject because I have no idea how to respond to his last statement. I grab onto my braid and fiddle with it for something to do with my hands.

 

“Yeah. I, uh, just wanted to say goodnight.”

 

I’m glad he can’t see my goofy smile. My fingers brush my left nipple when they reach the end of my braid, sending a electrifying burst through my body, right between my legs. “Oh,” I say on a sharply drawn breath.

 

“Is… that alright?” he asks uncertainly.

 

“Y-yeah. Yes, of course.” He lets out an audible breath and the sound seems to have the same effect on me as my hands brushing my breast. I test my reaction again to my own hand and bite my lip as another jolt of pleasure rockets through me.

 

“Okay. Good to know. Sleep well, okay?” his voice is low and husky, sending little tremors to my lady parts. His voice probably sounds that way because he’s tired, and I am anything but.

 

After we disconnect, I pinch my nipple, then let my hand follow the same electrified path down my body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I just can't seem to wrap this up yet! I really will try to in chapter 5. Please forgive my molasses pace on this one. Life got busy and stressful on me. I posted a poll on tumblr so I'll share it here as well. Would you like Peeta to A. keep his promise to go slow with Katniss, B. say fuck it and lose his self control in the next chapter, giving her plenty of inspiration to finish the story with, or C. tell her it was all a joke to get an A on his final after taking her virginity. And she can be with Gale. (Hint: one of these is a trick answer. It will never get written. I bet you can't tell me which one it is.) ;) Love to hear ALL your thoughts! Don't hold back!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait on this one. Thank you to xerxia and burkygirl for their feedback on what works and what doesn't! They won't let me post crap so I can honestly say this isn't crap thanks to them. :) Enjoy the read and we'll chat after... Pbg

I’m sitting in front of the computer sipping the latte Peeta brought when he stopped by to pick up his phone this morning. He stood in the doorway, his focus divided between my eyes and my lips, and said he wished he could stay, but he had a few touch ups on his art project to finish before the deadline.

 

I promised him I would work on the next part of our story so he would have something to read over the weekend, so that’s what I’m doing now. I’ve been mulling over how much to parallel between our date and this fictional date I need to write. I’ve changed the name of the restaurant, and instead of Italian it’s Chinese. Is Chinese romantic enough? I really have no idea. I think all food is romantic, but that’s because I don’t have the funds to eat much besides oatmeal and ramen. I have to reuse coffee grounds at least twice a week.

 

I sniff the cup in my hands as I read what I have so far. 

 

_Julia can feel Adam’s hand on her back as he ushers her into the packed, dimly lit restaurant. There’s a bustling quietness about it, the velvet whispers of the patrons giving it an intimate feel in the midst of the crowd. His solid hand never leaves her body as they follow the escort to their semi-private booth. It’s a tight fit, meant to be cozy, she guesses. She allows it, wondering when this thing between them that used to drive them apart began to pull them together._

 

_“Wine?” he asks her, but she declines with a shake of her head and a polite smile. She’ll need her wits about her tonight._

 

_It’s hard for her to hold his gaze. It’s intense and soft at the same time; builds tension and creates ease. Everything about him is a study in contrasts for her. She’s never been so eager a student._

 

_They talk in hushed tones, breaths wafting across the flame of the lit candle garnishing the center or the small table. It flickers as if it might go out, but it doesn’t. It’s a strong flame._

 

_His hand rests on his own leg but she can feel the edge of it through the soft fabric covering her thigh. When he removes it to place his elbows on the table, steepling his strong hands together, Julia almost sighs in relief and frustration._

 

 _Her body screams,_ ‘Touch me. Put me out of the misery of wanting you’ _while her head lists all the reasons why it’s a terrible idea._

 

_She allows him to pour her a glass of red wine to take the edge off, and with it gone the conversation gets easier, lighter. They both laugh, and Julia can feel her walls slipping under his gaze. His eyes are lit up like stars and his smile is magical when he listens to her talk about herself, which she almost never does with anyone. It’s amazing how easy he is to converse with._

 

_Dinner is delicious, and when Julia drops a little sauce on the skirt of her dress, Adam dips the corner of his napkin into his water and gently wipes it away. His hands retreat but his the touch lingers on her upper thigh. She wonders if it would be too obvious to drip more sauce on herself._

 

_“Would you like something sweet?” Adam asks when the waitress takes their plates. She wants to say yes, but not for the kind of dessert he’s talking about, so she shakes her head ‘no’._

 

_“Can I get the check, please?” he asks the server. She nods and scurries off to bring him what he asked for._

 

_“I’d like to pay for mine,” Julia says. Adam looks surprised, then his mouth lifts on one side._

 

_“How about I’ll get this time and you get next time?” he replies._

 

_Julia looks him over thoughtfully. The way his hair falls in waves over his forehead, cheeks ruddy from the wine. The cleft in his chin, the graceful slope of his nose, and finally to his crystal  blue eyes. Her instinct is to pay for herself. However, her bank account would be grateful for the reprieve tonight. And if she says yes, she’s guaranteed a second date. It’s more the latter reason than the former that makes her agree._

 

_Adam pays the check and they walk back to her place. She wishes he would hold her hand, but he keeps to himself, both hands buried in his pockets._

 

I stop, going back to read what I’ve got so far. It mirrors my date with Peeta in a fun-house sort of way; similar in the parts that any date would have - a romantic restaurant and a couple eating dinner - but distorted enough that it lends an original feel. We didn’t have wine and I didn’t drop sauce on my skirt, but next time I’ll see what I can do about that.

 

Now for the after date. Other than the dry humping scene and another kiss, there hasn’t been much in the way of erotica. But I have an idea. I’m terrified to write it, but without moving this story forward in its genre, I won’t be getting an A. I tell myself as I feel trickles of moisture at my temples that they’re just words on a page. I’m not writing my diary for the world to see. Just one professor. And she doesn’t need to know that I have personal experience in this area, limited as it may be.

 

Still, as Julia’s hand descends below her panty line I can’t help but breathe a little quicker and swallow repeatedly looking for moisture to make its way back to my mouth. I also tell myself that after I write it, I can delete it. No one has to see this.

 

I push on, focusing on the sensations I felt when I touched myself last night, Peeta’s scruffy voice in my head telling me to have a good night and his admittance that if he didn’t leave he would break his promise. A promise I’m not even sure I want him to keep.

 

_His voice is husky in her ears, driving her hand further to seek out the place he seems to touch with just his words. Her fingers find their way through her folds, experimenting with location and pressure until she finds the exact combination that makes her sing Adam’s name into the darkness._

 

When it’s finished, I get up and take a walk. Get out of my tiny room and away from the story. It needs to marinate before I can give it a more critical eye. Preferably separated from my personal feelings about it. This is why I have a partner, I know, but the thought of him reading it makes me shiver. And not in a good way. While I wrote it, in the back of my mind I knew he would have to read it - _if_ I keep it, that is. I try to calm myself by reserving the right to highlight that scene and press the delete button, but it’s not much use. How do authors write these things and put their names on them for everyone to see? Why not just set up a tripod and film themselves doing the deed? It seems the same to me.

 

 _Exposed_. That’s how it feels.

 

The walk did me little good. While it was refreshing to be in the late morning sunshine, I feel no more confident about letting someone read this scene. But I don’t have time to sit down and edit. I need to be at work in thirty minutes and it’s a ten minute walk, which gives me twenty minutes to get cleaned up and out of here. It will just have to wait.

 

 

“Hey, Everdeen.”

 

I look up from my notes to see Cato standing in front of me. The glass between us is a god send, but it still doesn’t protect me from his salacious gaze. I focus on his thick neck to keep from having to share eye contact with him.

 

“Can I help you?” The politeness in my tone is questionable.

 

“Well, I was going to catch Wonder Woman with a few friends, but I can wait. What do you say I get two tickets for when you get off and we can see it together?”

 

“I’ve seen it,” I lie. I haven’t had time to watch any movies, even though I work at a movie theater and can watch anything for free.

 

“That’s okay,” he answers, leaning forward until he’s inches from the glass. His hot breath fogs it up. Gross. I want to spray it with windex and wipe it away. “I don’t actually want to watch it.” His eyebrows move up and down suggestively, leaving me no room to pretend he doesn’t mean what I think he means. There is no doubt in my mind that Cato wouldn’t make a promise to take anything slow.

 

“Can’t.” I try deflecting him again. “I have to work on my story.” I realize too late that I said the wrong thing. Cato knows what I’m writing about. His response is written all over his smug face before he speaks.

 

“All the more reason to say yes. I can give you plenty of source material.”

 

I’m trying to un-scrunch my face in the name of customer service and decorum, but he makes it so damn difficult. I just want him gone. “No, thanks. I’ve got a source,” I say as I hand him one ticket to his movie of choice. “It’s on the house. Next!” I say, looking directly at the person behind him. He moves away with an irritated look, but I pay it no mind. I’m grateful for the line that’s forming.

 

I work like crazy through 10 PM. It’s opening night for a few big films and that means the queue is long. At one point it even wrapped around the side of the building. Thankfully, Cato didn’t come back to talk to me again.

 

After clocking out I start my walk home. I’m almost to the corner when a vehicle pulls up next to me. “Need a lift?” I spin at the sound of Peeta’s voice and see him in his Jeep just a few yards away.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

One side of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that creates a shadowed dimple I find mesmerizing. “Waiting for you.”

 

He’s been waiting for me? “How long? Why?” The second question slips out before I can pause to give him time to answer the first one. The other side of his mouth turns up, completing a dazzling smile.

 

“I figured we could work on the story. If you want, that is.” The timid way he phrases the last part of his answer makes me think he’s not quite sure of mine. I had plans to work on it tonight, but I almost decided to go straight to bed and wait until the morning I’m so tired. Having him there will give me a reason to follow through. And if I’m honest, I kinda like having him in my room. And on my couch. (Bed.) And bonus - a ride home.

 

I round the front of his Jeep, letting my actions be my answer. He leans across the console and pushes the passenger side door open for me, something I could have done myself, but oddly doesn’t bother me. When I close the door he pulls onto the street and in the opposite direction of my place.

 

“Umm, I live that way,” I say, pointing back towards campus.

 

“I’m hungry. I brought my computer so I figured we could just work on it together at Sae’s,” he tells me, referring to a burger dive not too far from here. “Is… that okay?” he asks when I don’t give him an answer right away.

 

I guess it is. I didn’t have any other plans, and suddenly sleep isn’t sitting too high on my priority list. “Um, yeah. Yeah, Sae’s sounds great. My treat,” I add, reminding him that he promised I could pay next since he picked up last night’s check.

 

He just smiles at me and says, “I knew you’d say that.”

 

We pull into Sae’s a few minutes later and after we order at the counter, Peeta picks a booth in the back. For a Saturday night it’s pretty bare, but then I realize it’s after 11:00 and they’ll be closing in an hour.

 

I slide into one side and, to my surprise, he slides in next to me, bumping my hip so that I have to move over a little bit more. I try not to let the frenzy of emotions he incites in me show on my face. I’d like to play it cool around him at some point.

 

“How was work?” he asks, turning his body toward mine.

 

I give him a quick glance and an even quicker answer. “Good. You?”

 

His smile widens.  “I wasn’t at work.”  I would have noticed the hand he settles on his own thigh except that his pinky brushes the skin where my khaki shorts end.

 

“Oh. Right. How is your art project going?” I practically breathe the sentence on him. So much for cool. He rubs the palm of his hand down his jeans casually, dragging his pinky along my flesh as he answers me - an answer I won’t be able to repeat should my life depend on it in the next ten minutes. He’s barely touching me but I can feel it as acutely as if he were squeezing me. And the way my throat constricts, practically cutting off my windpipe, he may as well have both hands around my throat.

 

He asks me another question which I can’t answer because I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying, so I excuse myself to run to the ladies room to compose myself. It’s when I’m splashing cold water on my face that an unsettled feeling comes over me. I remember it from earlier, but I can’t put my finger on why I felt it. So much has happened between this morning and now. As I dry off with a napkin I search my brain for what it is. It’s not until I’m on my way back to the table and I have a clear line of sight of Peeta with his laptop open, eyes on the screen and bottle to his lips that I remember exactly what it was.

 

“Wait!” I holler, but it’s no use. It all moves in slow-motion. And I see with precision the exact moment his eyes scan the smutty scene. Coke spews from his mouth, bathing the tabletop in carbonated froth. He chokes and sputters and his gaze lands on me. For a second he looks horrified, but then he springs into action, grabbing napkins to wipe up the mess he made.

 

I’m frozen, feeling just as horrified as he looked by the situation, and while he’s occupied I turn back to the bathroom to deal with my embarrassment the only way I know how - alone.

 

* * *

 

 

I stand in the bathroom stall, hugging myself. Trying to convince myself that it’s no big deal. The problem is that I’m a big, fat liar because there’s no way in hell any of this is not a big deal.  A quick recap confirms my current worst fear; a guy I might actually be interested in - for the first time in my life, mind you - who also seems to be interested in me, just read a masturbation scene written by yours truly. A scene which he obviously knows is actually a reality for me, given that the rest of the chapter _after_ the date was verbatim what happened with us. I was testing it out. Seeing how it looked on paper. And it was damn good, too. I just can’t stomach giving someone else a gigantic picture window into my very soul.  

 

Why didn’t I just delete the damn thing when I was thinking about it this morning?

 

I pull at my braid nervously until it’s unravelled, and then start chewing on my nails. He’s going to think I’m such a weirdo. A freak. And it’s my turn to pay for dinner so I can’t walk out. I also remember how it upset him the last time I left without telling him, and I know I have to face him this time. I’m positive he’s still out there, waiting for me to emerge. The lonely, grotesque girl he severely misjudged. There’s no way he would leave me here alone. He’s too nice to do that. But he’s probably not out there counting down the seconds until I return, either. I saw the look in his eyes. Horrified. It’s probably burned into his memory in the worst way. He’ll have to relive the words over and over, watch it play out in his head time and again. All while his lips twist in disgust and he wonders what he ever saw in me.

 

A thought hits me; What if I’m not normal? I wonder if other girls do this or if I’m the only one. Is that why he looked shocked? I mean, I’ve heard of guys doing it, but never girls. Of course, I didn’t pay that much attention to talks about sex in high school and my mother never shared anything of the sort. Our relationship was strained enough without that topic weighing it down.

 

But what do I say to Peeta now? I’m not cool enough to blow it off and pretend they’re just words. Because they aren’t just words. They are the sum of my feelings and my knowledge on the subject. Panic hits me at the thought of facing him again. I’ve always been sort of an open book. He’ll read me for all I’m worth. What if he decides it’s not much?

 

Question after question bombards my mind, but the final one is the one I’m not sure I want an answer to: what happens when this project is finished?

 

Do we go our separate ways and never talk to each other again? Are we supposed to stay friends, or something more than that? Are we dating? My head hits the back of the wall in frustration. I don’t know how to talk about all of this. Not to Peeta. Not to my mother. I have no close girlfriends that I would trust with this information.

 

I’m close to tears when someone walks in, uses the facilities and washes their hands. I braid my hair back in place and inspect my appearance after they’ve left. Another first for me.

 

I’ve been in here twenty minutes at least. It’s time to show my face, no matter how awkward it might be. I should just ignore my questions for now and just own the scene. So what if it’s a personal experience? I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. “For goodness sake you’re writing erotica,” I tell mirror-me. “It’s supposed to be _erotic._ How else would you know that?”

 

With that, I turn on my heel, my little pep talk echoing in my head, and push the swinging door open. I start strong. One foot in front of the other, head held high. I may even have a hand on my hip at one point, but with each step towards Peeta my confidence wanes. I practically collapse into the booth seat my legs are so wobbly in his presence.

 

_Well, that didn’t last long._

 

“Is...everything okay?” Peeta asks. I nod my head through a series of gulps of my drink just so I don’t have to talk and wonder if I can keep my mouth so stuffed with food during our time together that I don’t have to say anything at all.  

 

“The scene,” he starts, and I feel like my seat just got pulled out from under me. “It was… awesome,” he says, at the same time that I say, “Awful.”

 

“What?” we ask in unison.

 

“How could you think it was awful?” he questions before I can ask him the same about his thoughts.

 

“I wrote it just to practice. I mean, we’ve got the love scene coming up soon and I need to know I can write that stuff. I was planning on cutting it before anyone could see it.” I think he knows by ‘anyone’ I mean _him._

 

“I think we should keep it. It’s really good, Katniss.” He scans the screen and I tense, knowing that he’s looking it over again.

 

“What’s good about it?” My lips barely move when I ask the question but I have to know what he thinks now that he’s said he wants to keep it. I expected it to be like all his other feedback of these types of scenes - too robotic. But he’s piqued my interest. So much that I haven’t even noticed our food on the table. He holds a finger up and it’s now that I notice he’s chewing a bite of his burger, so I wait, concentrating on the tick of his jaw as it moves. He takes a drink to wash it all down, then his tongue swipes quickly across his bottom lip before he dabs a napkin over it.

 

“It’s well written. It’s captivating.” I almost snort at that descriptor, but he keeps going. “And it feels… genuine.”

 

He knows. _Deny, deny, deny!_ But what is there to deny? He hasn’t asked if I really did it. How do I answer a question before it’s asked?

 

“But most of all it’s… hot.” He tugs on his collar and I’m not sure if it’s for effect or if he even knows he’s doing it. The rosey stain on his cheeks gives me the impression his words aren’t for show.

 

“So you don’t think it’s gross or weird that she… you know?”

 

He shakes his head emphatically. “Not even a little. Honestly, it, um, got me a little, um,” he coughs, “turned on. Which means it did what you wanted it to do. Trust me, every guy will want to read this.” I’m sure he means it as a compliment, but it actually makes me more nervous. I want this under lock and key when it’s done. Permanently deleted. It’s not like I’m going to become a romance novelist. This is only for a grade.

 

“You’re sure? Because I can take it out and go a different way with it-”

 

“Nmn mnm,” he mumbles around his straw. I watch his throat bob when he swallows. “I like it. Trust me, Katniss, it works.”

 

Huh. He’s not grossed out by it like I imagined he would be. And if he’s being truly honest, which he said he was and I have no reason to doubt him because it’s his grade, too, then he may have even _liked_ it. It sparks something in me that I’ve only felt once - the first time Peeta and I were in his apartment - some kind of power that wants to take over. Make decisions for me. Decisions like where to put my lips and my hands, or which article of clothing I should remove first.

 

“So,” Peeta says, thankfully changing the topic before I give in. This _power_ should come with instructions. Like how to turn it off. “Where do they go from here? How does Julia feel about Adam now?”

 

I pick up a fry and twirl it between my fingers as I switch my train of thought to something more appropriate. I ponder for a moment how best to answer. I’d really like to write it out rather than talk about it since it’s so close to what’s happening with us. I’m not sure I can keep disguising my growing feelings for Peeta behind Julia’s character, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. “Well, according to the outline we wrote-”

 

He stops me with a hand up. “Let’s forget about the outline for a minute. They can change multiples times throughout the story. How does it feel to you now?”

 

“Oh. Okay, well, I think she, um, she likes him.” My hand slips up and down my braid in a nervous habit. “I mean, she hated him at first, but that’s only because she didn’t really know him. Unless he’s got some horrible secret or he’s a really great actor…” I trail off, not knowing exactly how to phrase what I’m trying to say without confessing that I think I’m… what exactly? I’m not in love. I’m definitely past the ‘like’ stage with him, but how far past?

 

“What?’ he prods. I can feel his eyes on me.

 

“I think…” My gut is flipping around like this fry in my hand. How to say it without saying it? “Their feelings are evolving. Hers, at least. Maybe they don’t know it yet, but they’re more than enemies-with-benefits.” There. It’s as out as it’s going to get right now. Time to move the focus off of me and see where Peeta stands in all of this. “What do you think about Adam? Is he… does he feel the same?”

 

“I mean, yeah. Like I said, he probably has for a while, he just didn’t know how to change the relationship because she would barely speak to him. Unless it was to throw out an insult.” I cringe inwardly because I know that’s what I’ve done with him. “But I think now that he knows it’s possible, he’s going to try even harder to make sure she knows he likes her.”

 

I take a drink to hide the dopey smile I feel coming on. With just a few words and some eye contact, Peeta has relieved some of my anxieties.

 

We fall silent. He finished his burger while I nibble on some fries. He watches me while I eat them, thinking about what to say next. His eyes track my hand as I raise it to my mouth. When I’m done I lick the salt first from my lips, then suck it from my fingers. I can see his cheek flex from biting the inside of it.

 

Then I watch as he lifts a fry to his own mouth, his lips parting. Teeth sinking into its golden flesh.

 

“So... what happens next?” I ask, a little breathless and a lot turned on. The feeling has returned, though maybe it never really left. It’s more of a hunger this time. One that’s not satisfied by the greasy pile of potatoes in front of me.

 

“What do you want to happen next?” He asks with a gravelly voice. He raises another fry to his mouth, but he doesn’t eat it. I wait for him to take a bite. Surely he’ll taste it. They’re so good. I lick my lips in anticipation and I can feel my mouth watering; heart thumping faster as the fry dangles before his lips, mere centimeters away, ready to be savored for the delicious morsel that it is.

 

_Eat it._

 

He blinks slowly, his eyelids rising like curtains on a stage, revealing pupils a shade darker than when they went down for intermission.

“I think we should figure this out somewhere else,” I tell him.

 

He drops the fry and folds up his computer. “Is there any possibility of you letting me get the check?” he asks while I dig through my bag for cash.

 

“Only if you want to spend the next hour arguing with me instead of taking me home.”

 

“I’ll go get the Jeep started,” he says smartly and heads for the door. I see him pop a stick of gum into his mouth before he’s outside. I want to find out what flavor it is, so I pay for the food quickly, not caring that I dropped $15 and didn’t eat much.

 

We don’t talk in the Jeep as Peeta drives a little over the speed limit back to my place. The air swirling around us is thick, barely breathable, yet my chest feels like it’s heaving. I don’t dare look directly at him for fear I’ll chicken out or break the spell somehow. He seems to have adopted the same idea because his eyes never leave the road.  

 

He parks in the first space he can find and we both climb out of the Jeep. On the way to the door Peeta takes my hand. It’s like a whip and I’m the horse. It spurs me on and my pace picks up, causing our hands to swing a little higher between us. I finally look at him and I wish I wouldn’t have. Not because it scares me, but because I’m ready to push him up against a wall or a door, or drag him behind a bush and kiss him until I don’t remember who I am.

 

 _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I’m 21 years old. I like to write. I don’t hate Peeta Mellark,_ I say to myself a few times. It’s like I need to embed that information into my brain because the  urgency I feel to get him inside has the potential to make me forget everything.  

 

We ascend the stairwell, and approach my door. “Keys?” Peeta asks with his hand out. My fingers brush his palm, cold metal between us, and a shiver runs up my arm and down my spine, causing goosebumps along the way. Every sense is heightened. I can hear his shallow breathing. Smell the scent of cinnamon on his breath. I can even taste the salty residue I know is on his lips.

 

This time, though, it’s Peeta who can’t get the door unlocked. He works the key until he seems as frustrated as I am watching him.

 

“Kiss me,” I say when I just can't take it anymore. Outside, inside, upside down. I'm so foggy with lust I'm starting to sound like Dr. Seuss. It’s the _power._ It doesn’t care that Katniss doesn’t demand things like kisses.

 

“I'm trying to,” he answers gruffly, still concentrating on the lock. When I still his hand, he turns his face to mine. I've been staring at those lips all night, and I don't think twice about pressing mine to them.

 

There is no hesitation between us. His hands find their way to my cheeks and mine to his chest. I think I push him against the door, but the sweet invasion of his tongue into my mouth is too distracting to notice what’s going on around us. He moans and I breathe it in, sliding my hands up around his neck and into his hair. His go around my back, creeping lower until his fingertips are toying with the waist of my pants.

 

A high-pitched whistle startles me enough that I jump back, almost across the hallway as Johanna comes sauntering towards us with a wolfish grin on her face. “Nice. Looks like you’re putting that advice to good use, Everdeen.” As she passes us she looks Peeta up and down and then throws a cocked eyebrow over her shoulder at me. “You’re welcome.” Then she disappears through a door, the power I felt moments ago no match for the kryptonite she embodies.  

 

* * *

 

 

I’m awake at 5 A.M. thinking about that damned kiss. His soft lips against mine and his velvet tongue doing things inside my mouth I want him to do over and over. Just the thought of it makes my stomach swing like a gymnast on the high bar. I squeeze my legs together, determined not to let my hand wander south. When _that_ happens again, I want it to be Peeta. But it’s got to happen soon because I feel like we’re running a race with no finish line in sight.

 

Instead of pleasuring myself, I force my feet to the floor and into my sneakers to go for a run. The crisp air does nothing to clear my thoughts and help me think past whatever this physical thing is with Peeta. Normally this works when I’m stressed or under pressure. How he’s managed to muddle my brain for the last few weeks is beyond me. He must be proficient in  voodoo. I am usually nothing if not focused.

 

I’m on my way back into my building, even more frustrated than when I left, when I run into Johanna on her way out. She’s the second to last person I want to see, the last being Cato. I try to breeze past her but apparently she’s in the mood for a chat, so I pause to listen to her question out of strained politeness.

 

“How’d it go last night, Everdeen? Care to dish the delicious details?” Her thin eyebrows move up and down and a sly smile stretches across her face. She’s cute with her pixie haircut and stunning dark blue eyes, but she’s too much for me.

 

“Can’t. I have somewhere to be,” I try to put her off. Maybe she’ll take the hint and realize she… _what did they call it in the book I read? Cockblocking?_ Yeah. She cockblocked me last night.

 

I’m about to say see ya later as I turn to walk away when she adds, “Later then?” _No, not later. Never is probably more like it._ “You could at least say thank you,” her voice carries down the hall.

 

I scoff and turn. “For…??” I hold my hands out in question, waiting for some reasoning I haven’t thought of to spill from her insensitive mouth, because there is no way I can thank her for anything.

 

“My stellar advice and gentle prodding that got you and hot blondie together.” She winks at me, the smile growing wider. She looks… proud.

 

A disbelieving laugh escapes and I snap. “Gentle? There is nothing gentle about you, Johanna. You are crass and rude and you put your nose where it doesn’t belong.” I’m stalking towards her now, her smile waning and eyes sharpening with each step I take. “Your _advice_ wasn’t helpful and your prodding was unnecessary. And if you _must_ know - YOU, Johanna Mason, are a cockblocker!” I finish my rant standing right in front of her with my finger dangerously close to her nose. The same nose that I just accused of wrongful action.

 

Her smirk is back, but it’s not the indecent one from earlier. This one is laced with condescension. “I’m not a cockblocker. If you can’t close the deal, that’s your problem. Not mine. That boy has been all about you since I’ve known him. He hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off you. _You-_ ” she pokes a finger in my chest - “who haven’t bothered to give him a cursory glance before this project started. Any moron can tell he would do anything for you. _Anything_ ,” she emphasizes. “Including, but not limited to, fucking your brains out on the daily.” She arches one brow and shrugs, finally removing her index finger from my chest bone. “Maybe you are your own cockblocker.”

 

I try to process her statements about Peeta. Things I know because he told me, through the story, but still... I can’t think too much about it because her last words are confusing the hell out of me. _How can I be my own cockblock? That doesn’t even make sense!_

 

I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but the words ring in my ears, sounding whiny and uncertain. I can only hope I didn’t sound that way to Johanna.

 

Her gaze turns curious. “You are the woman that boy has had his sights set on. Even if I cut the sexual tension between you two - which was steaming up the halls, by the way - with Paul Bunyan’s giant-ass axe, one kiss from you would have had it sewn back together quicker than a high-dollar Singer. Did you even try after I left?”

 

I stand there staring blankly at her. I didn’t _try_ anything. His lips met the tip of my nose softly, he told me to have sweet dreams, and then left. There was no opportunity to try for more. He didn’t want to come in or he would have waited for me to ask, right? Or invited himself in… I shake my head at that thought. Even the short amount of time I’ve spent with Peeta I know he’s not impolite enough to do that. I wouldn’t mind if he did, but that’s not his style.

 

“Earth to Brainless?” I realize I’ve been gazing in her general direction while my train of thought has taken off. Focusing back on her, I see a light bulb go off in her eyes and she tilts her head to study me.. “You… _do_ know what to do with a boy, don’t you, Katniss?”  

 

My hands land on my hips and my weight switches to one leg as I assume a defensive posture. “Of course I know what to do with a boy,” I say with a quick roll of my eyes, hoping she sees it for impatience and not for the lie I’m trying to hide. Even through all my studying, when the time actually comes - I almost smirk at the direction my mind takes at that word - I lack physical experience. All the head knowledge in the world won’t fully prepare me for it.

 

“Explain it to me,” Johanna says, crossing her arms over her chest and assuming a stance similar to mine, but taking on an offensive aire. No surprise there. Everything about her is offensive.

 

I feel my mouth open and close in shock. I want to drop my arms to my side and clench my fists at her audacity - we hardly know each other - but if I do I’ll lose the arm wall that feels like it’s holding my secrets in. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. Do you know how inappropriate you are?”

 

“Yeah,” she says without missing a beat. “Do you know how much of a prude you are?” My jaw would drop except my teeth are clenched so tightly together it’s not possible. “Look, I can tell you’re pretty pure.” I scoff but she raises her hand and stops me from speaking. “Your hands were on the side of his head. While that’s not a bad place to put them, they weren’t doing anything. From my vantage point it was like you were trying to get a read on what was happening in his brain Professor Xavier style. You were headed in the right direction, albeit a little stiff and a lot innocent, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some practice.” She loosens her stance and steps towards me, her eyes glittering with unsettling mischief. My arms unfold now to protect myself from her advance, but I don’t get the opportunity. Her moves are quick but sly.

 

“You’ve got to drive him wild. So wild he can’t do anything but think about you night and day.” I stiffen when she puts her hands in my hair and move to step away. “Don’t. Just be still for a second. You’ve got to move your hands, use your fingers to tug his hair and your nails to scratch his scalp.” She puts action to her words, and against my better judgement I relax, my eyes slipping closed for just a second. It feels really good.

 

Her hands slip down to the base of my neck, kneading the flesh and she hugs me to her body. My eyes fly open and I stiffen again because now it’s super awkward. We’re not friends. Not even close, so when her nails scrape up and down my spine, I untangle myself from her hold, and in my haste to cover the weirdness I feel between us I blurt out, “I’m a virgin,” and instantly regret it. What happened to not sharing?

 

I expect her eyebrows to raise and surprise to dominate her features, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, she looks bored. “Yes, I figured. That’s why I’m helping you.”

 

“How is this helping?” I gripe at her, raising and dropping my hands in frustration, even though she was actually teaching me something I could use.

 

“The sex part I can’t help you with. Well,” she says thoughtfully, “I could totally help you, but I’m pretty sure you’d end up crying in a corner for your mommy, so I won’t go there.” It’s my eyebrows that end up above my hairline. I wonder what exactly she means by that. Then shake my head because I decide I don’t want to know. “Anyway, I can teach you everything you need to know. For your paper _and_ for your man.”

 

“He’s not my-”

 

“Have you told him that?” she smirks.

 

“Well, no. We’re just paired for a paper.” Saying the words sounds like a betrayal to Peeta. But damn if I don’t want to open up to Johanna. Why am I even still standing here? She’s the last person on Earth I want advice from, yet she’s the only one standing here offering it to me.

 

“Yeah, and the university’s polo team rides unicorns during play.” She quirks an eyebrow at me, causing a reactionary eye roll and sigh from me.

 

“All I’m saying is I’ll do something for you if you do something for me.”

 

Now I see where this is going. “What is it?” I say flatly, reassuming my defensive posture.

 

“My partner’s an idiot and I need a good beta so I can pass this class. You may be virginal and pure, but everyone knows you’re the best at what you do.”

 

So she wants to trade my beta skills for some lessons in the art of sex? Ugh. I’m not sure I trust her that much. What if she teaches me things Peeta hates? What if I break his penis because of something she tells me to do?

 

“I’m not tricking you, Brainless. Do you want to please your man or not?”

 

Double ugh. _Yes._

 

“I’ll make you look like a pro and you help me pass this stupid class. Deal?”

 

My insides were at war. I could say no deal and fumble through on my own with continued ‘research’. Who am I kidding? It’s porn. I’m reading porn. Not science studies or NatGeo articles. I do wonder at how to hold a man’s… dick - _don’t cringe. The books never refer to a man’s anatomy as a penis_ \- and the exact right pressure to use. In the books I’ve read, (devoured), sometimes the guy will hiss and say to hold it tighter. What if I hold it too tight? What do I do before I touch it? What do I do _after?_ What if he hates it?

 

Oh, God. I do need her help. I try to think of anyone else I could turn to. Nora Roberts was a good start, but I can’t ask her any questions. To my dismay, and still feeling perturbed but deflated, I roll my eyes heavenward in a silent screw you to the universe and say, “Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill - this is the part where I ask for feedback. Is Katniss too naive? Have you had a similar experience that makes this at all relatable? Love to hear your thoughts... Pbg


	6. Chapter 6

After making a few edits and many suggestions to Johanna’s nonfiction piece, I'm starting to rethink our deal. I've fulfilled my part, but do I really need hers? Peeta already knows I have no experience by my own admissions, so what will he think when I show up ‘looking like a pro’, as Johanna put it? He's expecting virginal, not promiscuous. Maybe this is a terrible idea.

 

An abrupt knock on the door interrupts my concentration. My heart speeds up until I look at the clock. It’s too early to be Johanna. It must be Peeta, though he hasn’t made an attempt to contact me since he dropped me off last night. Not that it’s easy. We can really only communicate through google docs and I’ve been on for the last 3 hours, wondering why Johanna’s piece about the mating habits of moths sounds like it needs moth smut.

 

This project has ruined me for any kind of serious writing career. I briefly wonder if I can ever read again without expecting a love tale.  

“Surprise,” Johanna says when I inch the door open.

 

“You’re early,” I grumble in response. I hadn’t decided if I was going to cancel this date with the dark side of destiny or not.

 

“I expected you to chicken out, so I came before you could.” She winks and saunters past me into my room without waiting for an invitation.

 

I stare at the empty space where she was, then spin to face her, not having a clue what to say to the truth. The end of my braid whacks me in the cheek. I rub harshly at the stinging skin.

 

“You need me, Everdeen. Admit it.”

 

Nope. Not in a million years. But instead of saying it to her face, I tell her, “I’m not sure I want to do this.” She rolls her eyes.

 

“I swear if I had a nickel for every time I was right…  look, I already saw you made a shit ton of edits to my project, so I know you’re not begging out because you don’t want to give your opinion on it. What gives?”

 

She waits, one eyebrow quirked and her jaw moving like she’s got gum in her mouth. She blows a bubble and when it pops, she licks her lips of the residue. “Lesson one - anything to draw attention to your mouth. Got it?” I nod, and just like that she goes into lesson 2, 3 and 4 - which are to listen to what my body wants or doesn’t want, don’t be afraid to initiate - guys like it when they don’t have to do all the work - and “ _for heaven’s sake try a push up bra”_. I would be annoyed at her last tip, but I can’t deny I could use a little help in that area. That and I’m too focused on what she’s saying. It’s actually helpful.

 

She goes through where to put my hands and what to do with them, citing that while women have certain erogenous zones, most men’s entire bodies are one giant erogenous zone. “As long as your hands are on him somewhere, you’re turning him on. Even if it’s his arm. If you want to see him melt, put your hand on his knee and inch it up his thigh, but don’t let on that you’re doing it on purpose.”

 

My imagination watches me do all these things to Peeta as she says them.  

 

Next, she talks about kissing, which I thought I had a handle on, but from her description I’m woefully inadequate. I’m apparently supposed to bite his lip and then suck on it to ease the pain. She tells me to practice tonguing the inside of my wrist, that whatever feels nice there will feel good to him, and when she says her work is done here and gets up to leave, I can’t help but blurt out, “That’s it?”

 

“That not good enough for you, Everdeen?” She gives me a look like I’ve let her down. I think I’ve let myself down. Have I really been waiting to get to the explicit advice portion of the evening? Maybe.  

 

“How do I… you know…?” I widen my eyes in an attempt to let her read my mind, but she’s either horrible at it, or she wants to make me say the words.

 

“Just spit it out.” I have my answer to the silent question, at least.

 

“How do I touch him, you know... _there_?”

 

“You’re not ready for that,” she says flatly, catching me by surprise and I see red. Who is she to make a bargain, show up early so I can’t back out of it, and then withhold information I’ve finally found the courage to ask for?

 

“I’m of legal drinking age and you’re not my mother.” Neither of those arguments coupled with my pissy tone sound mature, but I’m not going to let her give me anxiety about these ‘lessons’ and then leave me hanging.

 

“Listen up, Brainless. If you can’t say the word, then you’re not ready to look at it, much less handle it. If I tell you what to do with it, you’ll freak out. Look, the best advice I can give you is enjoy the easy stuff for now. Perfect it. Drive him mad with how good you can kiss and touch. Trust me - you’ll end up there naturally. And if you need to talk about it, let me know.”

 

She opens the door to leave at the same time I open my mouth to disagree, but then it closes with the bang of the door. She’s right. I’m not ready for that. Peeta said we would take things slow and here I am wanting to rush into it. As I sit to try and sort through why, the door opens and Jo’s head pops back in.

 

“And remember, no means no. For you and him. Got it?” I nod. She winks and then she’s gone again.

 

* * *

 

 

I wake Monday morning and immediately check my email. I make a note to myself while logging into Gmail that I’m way too anxious to hear from a boy. I force the thought that he probably didn’t send anything to the front of my mind so I can crush the hope that sits like an immovable weight in my chest. They battle and rage at each other as I watch the rainbow wheel of death circulate for minutes. The computer goes dark and I groan. Not again. “Piece of shit.”

 

I snap it closed and start getting ready for class. I’ll see him there and casually mention that it crashed again. If he did get into the doc last night and tried to chat, then at least he’ll now I wasn’t avoiding him or anything. And I won’t have to tell him that I waited up with my computer open and logged in just so I could catch him if he did.

 

Pathetic.

 

I wait patiently at the front of the class, in my usual spot. Since my computer is dead again I only have a notebook in front of me. I doodle and try not to look around the room or behind me. I never did before I was paired with Peeta, so why would I do it now? _Because you liiiiiiiike him_ , my traitorous inner conscience taunts me.

 

In my peripheral I see sneakers and jeans turn down the front row and _finally_ Peeta plants himself next to me. Only when I look up into blue eyes, they’re more of the glacial variety than the warm, inviting one’s I’ve been used to staring into. A leering smile waits for me.

 

“I missed you after the movie Saturday,” Cato says with a hint of annoyance in. I stifle an eye roll. It’s hard, but I succeed.

 

“Uh, yeah, they moved me to the back and I had to close, so….” I look away and poise my hand over a blank page in an effort to pretend I’m busy, but I can’t think of anything to write.

 

_Katniss Mellark._

 

What the hell? There is no way I’m writing that. How did that thought even materialize? I think of the cliche of smitten girls blending their boyfriends’ names and doodling them into notebooks and trees and casts covering broken appendages. That is _not_ me. Not by a long shot. I shake my head to clear the ludicrous thought, but right behind it is a feeling of ire. At Peeta. For leaving me to sit next to Cato. For not reaching out to talk to me yesterday. For worming his way into my head as my _boy_ friend. We’re just study buddies. Kissing study buddies, but still. We’ve been on a few dates but that doesn’t mean I should be thinking of taking his last name. Good God! What has gotten into me?

 

I’ve never skipped a class, but right now I can’t _not_ skip this one. With Cato side-eyeing me and these crazy-girl thoughts sprinting through my mind as freely as an escaped convict, I can’t be here. It’s suffocating.

 

“Where you going?” Cato asks with an edge of concern to his voice as I fold up my notebook and pack it and my pen into my pack.

 

“Feeling a little sick.” I make a gagging sound and cover my mouth to keep him from following me. It works. His eye grow huge and he leans back in his seat, holding his hands up. Idiot. He doesn’t call out for me to feel better as I scurry from the room, and once I’m out in the hall I inch towards the doorway, sticking my head around the edge to peer in. I’m looking for a mop of blonde hair that _doesn’t_ belong to an imbecile, but I don’t see him. He’s not in class. To my knowledge, he hasn’t missed one, either, so something must be wrong.

 

My irritation from earlier turns to worry. What if something happened to him? On foot it will take me 25 minutes to reach his duplex, but that doesn’t keep me from setting off in that direction. It takes a little less than the my original calculations, probably because I speed-walked the entire way, but when I get to Peeta’s door I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy over his state of being that I knock hard and without hesitation.

 

I wait a few minutes, then press my ear to the door, listening for running water that might have drowned him in the bathtub after he slipped and hit his head. There’s nothing, though. I knock harder and longer. HIs jeep is in the driveway so I know he’s here. If he doesn’t answer I may have to break in.

 

Just when I’ve decided to go around the back, I hear the click of the lock and the door opens a hair.

 

“Katniss?” his voice croaks.

 

“You missed class. Are you okay?” He opens the door a little wider and puts one hand on the door jamb to support his weight. Now that I see his face in the light, I can tell he’s not okay. He’s pale and his eyes are tired. Without thinking, I put my hand to his forehead. I barely notice the almost-smile he gives me.

 

“The worst is over. I had the stomach flu yesterday and last night. I’ve just been catching up on sleep.” He opens the door even more and leans his head against it. “I’d ask you in but I’m sure the place is crawling with germs.”

 

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re not dead.” He huffs a tired laugh at my non-joke. Then he seems to come to himself.

 

“Did you walk here?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Let me get my keys,” he says as he starts to turn away. “I’ll run you home so you don’t have to-”

 

“No, you don’t have to do that. Get back to bed. I can get home on my own,” I tell him. He doesn’t listen, though, and keeps walking towards the kitchen. I follow him inside, intent on dragging him to bed when I see him fumbling around for something.

 

“Peeta?”

 

“Huh?” He searches the countertops with his eyes and his hands, looking disoriented. He presses a hand to the side of his head and winces. “My head is pounding.”

 

“Have you had anything to drink since yesterday?” I know the signs of dehydration. I used to have to make my mother drink liquids because in her deepest states of depression she would forget to do basic things like eat or drink. Or wake up.

 

I see his brain working. “Not really. I drank a little after I brushed my teeth the last time,” he admits.

 

“Peeta! You’re dehydrated! You’re not driving me home.” I huff around him, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a glass, then fill it with water and hand it to him. “Drink.” I don’t mean to be bossy, but if I hadn’t come by it could have been so much worse. When he finishes I refill it and hand it back.

 

He drinks it, and I go for a third.

 

“No, I can’t.” he waves me off, his hand moving protectively over his stomach.

 

“Just a few sips.” He gives in and takes two.

 

“Back to bed,” I tell him, pointing in the direction of his bedroom.

 

He smirks, though it’s a tired one, and turns towards his room. I follow, bringing the glass with me. “This isn’t how I envisioned you ordering me to bed for the first time.”

 

“Me either,” I reply out loud before I can stop myself.

 

He turns his head while he walks, eyes wide, then narrowing. His grin is weak but it’s there. “So you admit you’ve been thinking about me in bed?” I fight a blush, but don’t answer.

 

“Lay down,” I instruct him when we reach his bed. I haven’t been in his room before. It’s masculine, yet inviting, with light blue-gray walls, chocolate brown curtains that look like they feel like suede, and a brown and cream plaid comforter.

 

“You’re bossy in bed. I like it,” he says as he rolls to his side. I try to seem annoyed, but secretly I like it and I’m fighting to hide my smile. I make note of it in the back of my brain, because now is not the time to think about that, and help Peeta settle in. I check his temperature again, just because I’m curious. And because he’s staring at me and not saying anything.

 

“I’m staying,” I tell him, my tone leaving little room for argument, especially in his weakened state. “ I’ll wake you in an hour and you can drink more water.”

 

His eyes close, but he speaks. “Are you going to be my nurse? Nurse Katniss.” He says it with a smile on his pale lips. “Not gonna lie. Every guy’s fantasy is to be taken care of by a hot nurse.”

 

I bite my lip to hide my grin, thankful that his eyes are still closed. “That depends. Are you going to be a good patient?” I answer, playing along the best I know how.

 

“I’ll do,” he yawns around his words, “...anything you say.” And then he’s asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

I woke Peeta long enough to get him to drink some water and give me his password on his laptop so I could work on our project, which is what I’m doing now. It’s mid afternoon and I’m just staring at the screen. Stuck. I’ve gotten a few of the button’s of Julia’s blouse undone, and some kissing and over-the-clothes petting figured out, but this is _the_ scene. The one where Julia loses her virginity. There are some soft sighs, a gasp, one moan and two groans, and I’m wondering if I’ve overdone it already with the sounds. They haven’t done any oral exploring - not that I would have a clue how to write that, it just seems that every book has it - and forget actual penetration. What sounds will I use for that? Does she scream or gasp more? And how much gasping is too much before it gets annoying?

 

I read through again, trying to recall some of the scenes I’ve read in my novels and focus on hand and body part placement to make sure I haven’t given Adam three legs. I snort out loud. Or four… if you consider his penis a leg.

 

Johanna’s comment about not being ready for it if I can’t say it makes an appearance. I think the word cock a few times. Type it in list form until it doesn’t make the tips of my ears feel heated. Then test it quietly on my lips, enunciating the _k_ at the end, repeat a little louder-

 

“What are you doing?”

 

I choke on a sharp intake of breath at the sound of Peeta’s raspy voice, looking up to find him standing just outside the doorway of his bedroom.

 

“W-working,” I stutter, and then rush to add, “on the project.”

 

“Need help?” he asks curiously as he leans his weight on the door frame, arms folded across his chest, looking like the handsomely disheveled Peeta I know rather than the death-warmed-over version from mid-morning. Unfair.

 

“How are you feeling?” I ask, deflecting his offer. I get nervous when people read over my shoulder when I’m _not_ writing smut. Plus, I think I’d like him to stay just where he is so I can look at him in his fitted white t-shirt and gray gym shorts. He looks good. Better than I would if I’d been in the same situation. I’d probably still have vomit in my hair and breath that could kill a man dead.

 

“Better than I was earlier, that’s for sure.” He pushes off the door and walks over to me, sitting down beside me on the couch. Not too closely. I reach for his forehead, just to check. And also maybe because I want to touch him. His eyes close and he says, “I’m glad you stayed.”

 

“You needed someone to make sure you didn’t die.”

 

He laughs weakly, “I think if it had been two months ago you might have smothered me with a pillow instead.” I hand him the glass of water I’ve been saving for when he rejoined the land of the living.

 

While he drains it I think about his words. My how things can change. I barely remember the feelings I had towards Peeta two months ago. They’ve evaporated completely. Probably because they weren’t based on anything true. Just assumptions and opinions that aren’t at all consistent with what I now know about Peeta Mellark. That he’s kind and thoughtful, intelligent and hardworking, and had difficult teen years the same as me.

 

“I really do appreciate you taking care of me,” Peeta says, filling the comfortable silence that falls between us after he sets the glass down.

 

I don’t know what to say to that, so I settle for a simple, “It’s no problem.” I just missed the rest of my classes, but I don’t say that out loud. I also don’t think I could have focused on them at all not knowing what was happening with him.

 

“I probably look like death warmed up,” he jokes.

 

“Not anymore,” I answer with a raised eyebrow, then look back at the screen, because it’s the only way I can get out what I’m about to say.. “You looked terrible - no offense - and I would have kissed it better if it was anything other than the stomach bug.”

 

I groan inwardly. It sounded way better in my head than the female version of a cheesy male pickup line it turned out to be. How obvious can I be? And after what he’s been through he’s probably not in the mood for my juvenile flirting.

 

He laughs softly. “In that case I think I feel something coming on.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” I reply, hoping I’m reading him right. I think I am if the sly grin ticking up the left side of his mouth is any indication.

 

“Yeah.” He settles himself closer to me, thighs touching, body heat warming me. His arm rests behind me and I can feel his hand on the couch at my backside, though he’s not actually touching it. I want to scoot back and put it in the palm of his hand.

 

Instead, I prop my elbow on my leg and put my head in my hand and ask, in my best smoky voice, “Is it serious?”, and watch as his eyes turn a shade of blue I haven’t seen on him before, and the smile that was there seconds ago is gone. I would wonder if he’s upset with me, except that he’s leaning in, and so am I.

 

Our heads touch and his nose bumps lightly against mine.He smells minty, like he’s just brushed his teeth. His voice is a little deeper than normal when he says, “Yeah, I think it’s pretty serious.” And then his mouth is on mine and it’s everything I’ve been thinking and writing and dreaming about all wrapped up in one amazingly soft kiss. I’ve always thought the phrase ‘panty-melting’ was ridiculous, but in this moment I’m a believer.

 

It’s not the lustful crazy kiss we shared in the hallway, but it’s no less heated. No less promising. I’m the first to part my lips. First to suck his lower lip into my mouth. I let go and lean back a hair, then go in for more. He lets me. Lets me control the when and the how and the where. He follows me wherever I go, his tongue meeting mine stroke for stroke.

 

I lean in to get even closer, and I don’t stop until he’s on his back. His arms come around me and pull my body on top of his. He tugs on the band at the end of my braid and then his fingers are working from the ends to the base of my neck to untangle it. My hair falls in a curtain around us as we continue kissing, and he uses the tips of his fingers to massage little circles into my neck, then trails them down my spine and back up. My arms give as my body relaxes completely into his. He rolls me to the side with my back against the sofa, one leg slipping between mine.

 

His hand skims down my arm, resting on my hip, and his thumb begins painting random shapes over the skin just above the waistline of my jeans. It’s what I focus on most. Stripes. Circles. Half moons. There may have even been a star scorched into me at one point.

 

I shiver when he dips a finger in the gap between denim and skin, just briefly. After he removes it, I refocus on what his tongue is doing to mine. How every other stroke is soft to balance the roughness of the others. Like he’s holding back then letting go over and over.

 

Johanna’s voice is in my head now, reminding me that my hands are like dead fish holding onto his shoulders. I move them down his arms, pausing every few inches to make sure he’s okay with it. Actually, it’s to second-guess myself, but he never stops me and when my hands ruck up the hem of his t-shirt and find the warm ridges of his abs, I sigh and he groans.

 

Knowing he likes it gives me the courage to separate our kiss and take my lips on a trip up and down his jaw. He tilts his head for me and they end up on his neck while he grabs my backside, pulling me closer. The action rubs his thigh between my legs and it feels… _ah-mazing._

 

Without much thought I reach down and squeeze his butt. “I-is that okay?” I ask breathily in the two seconds I manage to disconnect my lips from his skin.

 

“Everything you do is more than okay, Katniss,” he whispers huskily as we continue to rub against each other. He lets go of me to bring his hand to my face, angling it away from his neck so he can kiss me. And kiss me, he does. It’s all needy, no hesitation. Like he’s finally decided to give in. My heart is skipping beats like a DJ on speed.

 

His hand slithers under my shirt and he drags his nails lightly up my ribs. When he reaches the spot just beneath my bra, he pauses his ascent to rub one finger back and forth across my skin. I can feel goosebumps erupt and begin a ripple effect all over.

 

He picks his hands up and just when I think he’s going to touch my breast, his kisses slow and he removes his hand from my shirt. He gives me a gentle kiss on my forehead, then relaxes back into the couch, effectively cutting whatever this was short. I know it’s short because I want more. What I don’t know is why he stopped.

 

My cheek is resting on his pectoral and his arm is around me, dragging his fingers lazily up and down it. My hand is still on his abs, not moving, but soon my fingers begin to bend and scratch lightly through the sparse hairs that lead below his shorts. He reaches for my hand, linking his fingers through mine. He studies our clasped hands for a few beats before laying mine on top of his chest and covering it with his. I can’t help but think he doesn’t want me touching him there.

 

His heart pounds against his ribs. I’m still touching him, but I miss the feel of his skin under my palm and I can’t help but wonder why he stopped kissing me. Why he moved my hand further away from his... _cock._ He just said everything I do is ‘more than okay’, but now he doesn’t want me to do anything?

 

Johanna’s words haunt me. _I am my own cockblocker._ But I have no idea how I keep managing it. Is he concerned that I’m a virgin? Maybe my lack of experience is more of an irritation now than an intrigue to him. I probably kiss like a goat and my amatuer hands don’t glide over his body like they should.

 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, at the worst time. The time when I’m having doubts about myself and if he really wants me like Johanna said.   

 

“Why did you stop?” Embarrassment tingles up my spine and into my neck and cheeks in anticipation of his answer. “Do you not want me?”

 

“Katniss, no, it’s not…” he sighs and moves to sit up. I push off of him and move to the other side of the couch, my stomach dropping at his hesitation. He scrubs a hand over his face and then leans over, elbows on his knees. “Of course I want you. I’ve never wanted anything _more_ than you. But-” he pauses and his lips pinch together thoughtfully. Finally, he looks at me.

 

“The project. I see the things you write - the first date, making out on the couch, Julia is a virgin. There’s no doubt this is written from your own experiences. _Our_ experiences. It’s a mirror of us over the last month.”

 

I breathe in deep through my nose, waiting for him to go on.

 

“I guess I just don’t want this,” he motions between us, “to be just about the project. I don’t want to have sex with you because you feel like you need to do it to write the scene. I want to be with you because what’s happening between is real, and will last longer than the deadline for the project. And because you want to be with me the same way I want to be with you. And honestly, I don’t want it written down for someone else to read.” He looks down at his knees and runs both hands through his hair, pulling at the roots before letting his arms flop down. “I guess I’m just scared that I’m fooling myself into thinking that we’re starting something. We were kind of thrown together, and had we not been,” he opens his arms in a light shrug, “I don’t know that we’d be sitting here now.” He breathes deeply. “I told you I liked you, Katniss. And that’s not changing.”

 

The end of his confession brings a whoosh of breath from my lungs. I’d been holding it for so long my face probably matches his eyes. It should be a lot to process, and it would be if he hadn’t put my exact feelings into eloquent words I’d never be able to express unless I wrote them down.

 

“It’s real for me, too, Peeta,” I reply in a small voice. A dazzling smile splits his face and before I can chicken out, I lean in and give him a quick kiss, barely able to contain my own smile.

 

I check my older than dirt watch, surprised how quickly the day has gone by. “I should go. I have work.”

 

“Can I drive you?”

 

Normally I wouldn’t have accepted, but something about admitting it’s real for both of us makes it okay. And knowing how busy our schedules will be over these last few weeks of the semester makes me want to take advantage of any spare time we can share.

 

Peeta grabs his keys and helps me into the passenger seat of his Jeep, a goofy smile plastered across his face the entire time. We link hands over the console and the too-short ride to the movie theater is silent but comfortable, giving me time to think about how to show him it’s real with more than just meager words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Hope you liked this update and that you'll stick around for the finale! It's been a rather easy go for these two. Normally I find all kinds of crap to throw at them. (Beware chapter 7) ;) Love to hear your thoughts! Pbg


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to split this chapter up. It's becoming too large. Most of these chapters are around 6,000 words and my pickiness won't let me post a random 10k word chapter, even if it is the last one. Anyway, that means there is one more chapter, and ONLY one more chapter. Yeah, yeah, she's said that before, you're thinking. I promise you, if I post two more chapters I will dig my own grave and lay in it. :) Okay, well enough chatty-Cathy. Enjoy this (next to) last chapter and don't forget to let me know what you're thinking! Oh, and happy Halloween. Mwahahaha...

“Done.”

 

I open one eye and stare at Peeta, sitting cross-legged next to me on my bed with his computer in his lap. The bright glow of the screen is the only lighting in the room. It’s two in the morning and our project is due in 6 hours. He’s been re-reading and editing here and there while I fell asleep. I don’t know how he’s still awake.

 

“Really?” My voice is raspy from sleep and my eye closes, too heavy to care that it’s finally finished. But my body feels weightless at the news.

 

“Really.” I listen to the click of the laptop closing, the sliding of it onto my nightstand before he says softly, “It’s late. I should go.” He stands from the bed but doesn’t get far before my hand is around his wrist. I let my fingers slide down, tangling with his.

 

“Stay?”

 

He doesn’t hesitate, nodding and stripping off his shirt before he climbs back onto the bed. My eyes are suddenly not so heavy, but it’s too dark to see much, so I turn over as Peeta curls around me, pulling a blanket over us. His arm across my stomach is comforting, and the warmth of his body would lull me right to sleep, but there’s something pressing against me that’s not going to allow that.

 

Peeta’s hips flex once, and my lungs stop working. His breath ghosts across my neck and cheek, my mind racing and heart starting to thump harder. He doesn’t move again. Eventually his breathing evens out and I know he’s asleep. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. A mixture of both maybe?

 

I inhale deeply and try to go to sleep. Since it seems Peeta can do it so easily after being turned on, I should be able to as well. But no. An hour later, I’m still staring at the plain off-white wall, turned dingier by the lack of lighting. My eyes are big enough to set tea cups on and drier than the desert. I bet I haven’t blinked in seven minutes. I rub them closed and huff a big sigh, which causes Peeta to shuffle and his hand moves from my ribs to my lower stomach. An instant surge of need hits me. _Shit._

 

And it’s not going away. Not with him so close. If anything, it’s getting worse. Or better, depending on how I want to look at it. I count sheep to keep from thinking that the only things separating our private parts are four minimal layers of clothing - my sleep pants, Peeta’s basketball shorts, and our underwear.

 

I don’t mean to wiggle my butt and push into him, but I can’t help it. He breathes and adjusts, turning his hips slightly away from me and repositions his hand back to my ribs. Not exactly what I had in mind.

 

What do I do now? I guess I could get up to go to the bathroom and take care of it myself. At least it would help me get some sleep out of this busted night. But I’m too… _something_ to move. Too nervous or too aroused. Should I just wake him up and ask? No. I can feel my cheeks turn scarlet at the mere thought of it. We haven’t done more than steal a few kisses over the last week. There just hasn’t been time between work and school.

 

But there is now.

 

I wiggle against him a second time. “Peeta?” It’s a whisper, just to test if he’s fallen into deep sleep yet.

 

“Mmm,” is his sleepy response and he snuggles close to me again, but goes still. I lace my fingers through his, wiggling once more before I give up. This night is going to suck. I’ve decided to close my eyes and ignore my body when his fingers curl in deliciously against my bare stomach where my shirt has ridden up. Sparks ignite inside me as he starts to draw lazy circles with every one of his fingertips.

 

“Aren’t you tired?” he asks in a sleep-roughened voice.

 

My heart beats a few times as I decide how best to answer. “No,” I whisper truthfully. His lips touch the bare skin of my shoulder while his hand continues to create delicate art above the waist of my pants. I can’t help reaching behind me and sinking my fingers into his hair. He groans and flattens his palm against my belly, pulling my hips into his. I can feel him again, but my concentration is lost when his fingers wander further south.

 

“Katniss?” His lips are at my ear now. The warm breath that tickles me also lights me on fire. My lips are pressed together so hard my only response is a muffled, “Mmm?”

 

“Can I touch you?”

 

I don’t say anything. I am physically incapable of speech right now, so I cover his hand with mine, guide it to the waistband of my pants and push it underneath, letting him know without words that I want him to touch me. I _need_ him to touch me. Sleeping next to him even for the few nights we have has turned into sweet torture. To hell with slow.

 

When his fingers sink between my legs, my toes curl. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for, but way too soon he removes his hand. My chest almost explodes with disappointment until I realize he’s tugging on the elastic sitting lower on my hips than it was moments ago. His lips hover just below my left earlobe, and the warmth of his breath raises tiny bumps across all of my body when he asks me, “Can you take these off?” Again, I say nothing. Just shed my clothing like he wants. I’ll do anything he asks right now.

 

His hand returns to the place I want - no _need_ \- it most, and my body is on a climb to the top of an imaginary mountain. Every stroke of his finger is a step towards the peak, and when I finally get there, there’s no time to spend ogling the view. I jump off the other side without a parachute. Weeks of frustration and longing shatter beneath his touch as I sail to the valley below. It’s even better than the first time it happened in his apartment and I wonder how soon we’ll be doing that again, out loud apparently because he answers with a soft laugh.

 

“Anytime you want. That was amazing.” He nuzzles my neck with his nose as I float down from my spectacular high. My body sags against his as he cocoons me from behind, completely and utterly relaxed. He doesn’t try to go any further than that. If I had the energy I might wonder why, since the story is technically finished and there will be no more adding to it. No opportunity to write our experiences as Julia’s and Adam’s. But I don’t bother to analyze it, and in no time at all I’m drifting off.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s a big, big, big daaaa- _aaaay_!” Professor Trinket sing-songs at the beginning of class on Monday. “Hopefully, you all sent your submissions in to my email by the start of class. I’ve already seen a few that I can’t wait to read.” Professor Trinket claps her hands together and gives me a pointed look. There’s a gleam in her eyes that makes me certain ours will be first. And probably read more thoroughly than any other. It causes a bit of a nervous flutter, but then Peeta’s knee knocks into mine and he gives me a smile that almost makes me not care about what the professor thinks. I got something even better than a perfect grade out of this project. Something that rooted itself inside me and grew before I knew what was happening.

 

I return his smile, unable to imagine what life was like before him, and then I blush, looking away quickly when I remember what happened in my bed last night. Peeta was gone before I got up, leaving me half asleep with a quick kiss to the back of my head, so I didn’t have the opportunity to be embarrassed around him. Which is what’s happening now.

 

“Obviously there’s no way I can read all of these in a week, so I’ll task you with one more assignment, which will also be part of your final grade.” My attention snaps from last night’s events to the present at the professor’s statement. Everything around me is forgotten. “You will read and review another group’s project - no skimming,” she warns. “You have until end of class Friday. Time starts now, class. Chop chop.”

 

I look at Peeta, always so calm and collected. The exact opposite of how I’m feeling right now. Most of our story is about us. _Me._ Finding my way through my own sexuality and a boy I despised but came to... like a lot. I only recently became okay about Peeta and Professor Trinket reading it, and now I have to let _more_ people in? This can’t be happening.

 

Before I can collect my thoughts, Cato looks past me to Peeta. “You guys want to switch?”

 

My breathing stops as Peeta looks around at the other pairs, already partnering up and says, “Sure,” before I can scream _No!_ at the top of my lungs. I can’t fault him, though. He has no idea how uncomfortable Cato makes me feel. Should I tell him?

 

“Here,” Cato says, placing a sheet of paper in front of me. “Write down your email and number for me.” I panic, grateful I don’t have a number but I don’t want Cato to have any way to contact me. I’d rather him not even know my name. Or that I exist as a person.

 

I grab my things faster than I ever have and excuse myself, not meeting either of their stares even though I can feel them burning into me. “Actually, I have to go. Peeta can you handle that? Thanks.” I don’t wait for a response before I’m barreling towards the exit.

 

I go on with my day, tense and anxious for most of it. I try desperately not to think about the last leg of the project. I am also trying not to plan Professor Trinket’s slow death. I partially succeed at the first one. I tell myself every ten minutes that it’ll all be over in a matter of days, and while it’s true, it doesn’t make letting a stranger into the doc any less daunting.

 

It’s not until later when I’m in my room that Peeta knocks on my door. I open it and find him leaning against the frame, a curious look in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks as I push the door all the way open in invitation. He shoves off his shoulder and walks in, closing the door behind him. I plop down on my bed, fold my legs under me and shrug my shoulders.

 

Peeta follows, sinking slowly next to me and places his hand on my knee, shaking it lightly. “Talk to me.”

 

From anyone else, the statement would come off demanding, but with the person who’s come to mean more to me than almost anyone, it’s an opportunity to purge my feelings in a safe place. Something I’ve never really had before.

 

“I was just surprised that we have to share our story with other students, and honestly Cato is not the person I would have chosen to review it.” I shiver at the thought of what the brute will have as ammunition after he reads it. “He’s kind of a creep and now he has my email.”

 

Peeta squeezes my knee in what feels like an apology. “He doesn’t have your email.”

 

“He doesn’t?”

 

“No. I didn’t want to partner up with him, either, but it seemed like everyone else was already taken. But I wasn’t about to give another guy my girlfriend’s information anyway, so I just gave him mine.”

 

I’m almost compelled to tell him I love him right then, and I might have if it hadn’t been for the word he just used. “Girlfriend?” I can feel one brow inch its way up my forehead. We haven’t talked about it and I haven’t given any thought to labeling us. I’m not sure I want to. I don’t want to ruin the easy feeling between us.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, his hand inching up my thigh, making me lose focus on our conversation. Then his brow creases as his hand pauses. “Are you okay with that?”

 

I swallow and my eyes flutter. I want him to stop talking and finish where I think this is going, but I know he’s going to want an answer. I don’t have one for him right now, partly because he’s touching me and partly because I haven’t had time to think about what it means, so I answer his question with one of my own. “Are you?”

 

He leans in and his lips are so close I can feel the smile on them. “I’ve been okay with it since the day I met you.” And then he kisses me. Something in my chest flutters. I stop thinking and fall back on the bed, Peeta following without breaking the kiss. He’s on top of me and his weight is like a welcome home hug. Except way more indecent.

 

One of his legs finds its way between mine as his tongue divides my lips and conquers my mouth. I raise my white flag of surrender by driving my hips into his. I can feel his hardness pressing against my thigh. He grunts and one of his hands slides down my side to rest at my hip. He squeezes and it feels _urgent._

 

Our kiss speeds up, my pulse with it, and I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him tight to me. Our hips are in a rhythm that feels so natural and… primal. I can feel his length sliding against me, but I want to know more. I need to know what it feels like in my hand. I want to see if I can make him feel good, too.

 

His hand begins its descent between my legs and for a split second I forget all about wanting to do something for him.

 

“Peeta, wait.” I say through our kiss. He freezes, his body tensing above me.

 

“‘I’m sorry-”

 

“No, it’s not that, it’s um, I want to…” _Just tell him you want to touch him._

 

Peeta must think he knows what I’m trying to say, because his eyes widen and he drops his weight off to the side of me, scrubbing a hand over his face and uttering a soft curse. “I, uh, didn’t bring anything with me.”

 

I raise up on my elbows to stare down at him and narrow my eyes, trying to decipher what he would need to bring with him other than his cock, which is definitely present, when I realize he means a condom. “Oh! No I didn’t mean - I just wanted to t-touch… you,” I stumble around the words, not able to meet his gaze. Instead, my eyes land on the very large object in question. I don’t want to look away but I know I should. Shouldn’t I? Then it moves. Just the tiniest twitch, and my eyes flick to his, dark sapphires now.

 

I sit up on my knees and reach for the hem of his shirt, pushing it up a little. “Can I?” My fingers itch and my stomach is a ball of nerves. The good kind I guess, because they’re not holding me back. He nods and his eyelids shutter a few times before he closes them. It’s a bit of a relief not to have him watching my first attempt at pleasuring a man. I’m not a hundred percent sure what to do, so I recall a few scenes from my reading. Scenes that at first made me cringe, but now make my mouth water and my legs tighten when I think about them.

 

I release the brass button of his jeans and drag the zipper down. Peeta helps by raising his hips and pushing them even further. I’m unprepared for the way it springs up at me and I jolt a little. It’s just… standing there. I bite my lip, watching as it twitches again. A quick glance at Peeta and he’s watching me as intently as I’m watching _it._

 

He breathes out a shaky breath that sounds like my name, and that’s all it takes for me to reach out and grip it in my hand. It’s warm and the skin is soft.

 

“Fuck.” The curse is quick and soft, freezing me in place.

 

“Did I hurt you?” I loosen my already loose grip.

 

Peeta shakes his head and one side of his mouth lifts barely in a crooked grin. “Here,” he says as he puts his hand over my own. “Grip it tighter like - _fuck_ \- yeah... like that.” He guides my hand up and down and when I’ve got the hang of it I move his hand away and straddle his thighs.

 

“Holy shit, you’re gonna… kill… me,” he says between breaths. I bite back a smile. I was always a fast learner. “Feels… so good.” His groans mixed with his affirming words make me feel so empowered. Like I can do anything. I’ve got the world at my fingertips instead of just his cock.

 

His hips start to pulse in time with my hand and he grabs fistfuls of my comforter. I can feel the dampness in my panties. I fight back the urge to rub myself on his leg, but it’s no use. My body joins the same rhythm as my hand and his hips, like a well-timed harmony.

 

I wonder what would happen if I just stop thinking and let my body take complete control. I’m tempted to give in and see, but Peeta tenses beneath me. I watch, mesmerized, as his his eyes close tight and his lips purse together. When his hand wraps around the top of his cock, I freeze again, unsure if I should let go or keep going.

 

“Don’t stop,” he grunts, as warm liquid trickles down my hand. I start pumping until he stills my movement and lets out a deep, shuddering breath.

 

“Katniss, that was amazing.” Peeta says softly, his face tilted to the ceiling, eyes still closed and lips parted. I feel like I just aced a test _and_ got the extra credit.

 

“Yeah?” I ask, finally letting go to survey the mess on my hand and his body. It’s gooey and… weird. I grab a few tissues from my desk and hand them to Peeta, then clean myself. It’s strange how satisfied I feel after doing that to him, and he hasn’t even done anything to me yet. I guess he doesn’t need to. I’d be happy to lay next to him and take a nap.

 

I sit back on the bed, Peeta still laying there with his eyes closed and a contented look to his features. He’s mostly covered again, except for a sliver of muscled abs. He cracks one eye open when he feels my weight next to him, and I have no time to react as he lunges up and grabs me, twisting us so that I’m pinned underneath him. I’ve never been wrestled before but I have to admit that I may take up the sport.

 

“Your turn,” he says with an adorably crooked smile. He laces his fingers with mine, raising them to the pillow above my head. Then, he nudges my chin to the side with his nose and I feel his lips on my neck. The nap I wanted evaporates like drops of water in the driest climate.That satisfaction I said I felt? It’s long gone. And in it’s place is a hunger I’ve only acted on over the last few weeks.

 

“Katniss?” he asks as one of his hands skims from my hand all the way to my waist and under the hem of my shirt. His fingers draw figure eights on my skin, up and up and up. He stops just below my breast. It’s difficult, but I use my words and give him the permission he seeks to make me feel good.

 

He pinches and rolls my nipples between his fingers for a long time, making me squirm and arch beneath him before he undresses my bottom half and parts my legs. He caresses my inner thighs and I can feel his breath hit my center. My pulse thunders in my ears and my chest rises and falls, more labored than a sweatshop in China.

 

Peeta takes an inordinate amount of time exploring the flesh around my hips and down my legs. He kisses my calves, licks the underside of one of my knees, and bites the inside of my thigh. I both love it and hate it. I wiggle my hips at him, growing more frustrated by the second.

 

“Touch me,” slips out in a panted plea.

 

“I was thinking maybe, if you want me to, I could… go down on you.”

 

I tense when I realize he means he wants to put his face _there_. I know guys do it. I’ve overheard a few girls talk about it before and I thought it was disgusting. How could someone let a human being put their face down there? Bodily functions happen from there. But now, with Peeta so close, I don’t have the same grossed out feelings, but I also don’t know if I want him to do that.  

 

“We don’t have to.” he says, his hands skimming my legs before he crawls up my body. He kisses me and I relax a little.

 

“Thank you,” I whisper. “Can we just… kiss for a little while?” The desire I felt moments ago isn’t quite as strong, and I feel like I need to slow down. His answer is just to kiss me again, soft and slow, with no end in sight. His hands don’t venture any place other than my hair, cheeks and neck, and it’s not long before we’re holding each other and falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Wednesday and I’m at work, sitting in the box office with a Marie Claire magazine I discreetly snagged off the table of the students’ lounge the day before. One of the articles is about oral sex and, curious, I want to see what all the fuss is about. Maybe get some tips on what to do or how to prepare. I’m mainly concerned with whether or not Peeta will think I’m gross after the fact. Pubic hair and body fluids aren’t exactly sexy in my book, but I’ve learned over the length of this project that whatever I have an aversion to, learning about it helps me understand. Take the edge off whatever reservations I’ve built up over time.

 

The main question I have is does he really _want_ to do that? According to Marie, he’s fantasized about it. The article is fascinating, though, and what I thought was going to be a cringey read is getting me a little excited and making me feel strangely desired.

 

I’m insatiable for more on this subject, and I’m rounding out my third read-through when I glance up at some movement on the curb and see Cato strolling towards the building. I stash the magazine hastily like I’ve been caught by my mother with porn. When he’s only ten yards away my heart leaps to my throat. I’m sure I won’t be able to form any words, which is ironic considering mere words can’t express how badly I don’t want to interact with him.

 

The thought dawns on me that he’s here for me and not to see a movie. It’s matinee time on a Wednesday. The only people who ever come to see movies during this time are the elderly and mothers with toddlers. He is neither of those and he’s alone. Smiling unnervingly. It’s not an ugly smile, and if I didn’t get a bad feeling every time he’s in my vicinity, he might actually be attractive. But I do.

 

His hulking frame takes up most of the window space. “Everdeen,” he says, tapping his fingers on the outside counter. I clear my throat to speak into the microphone.

 

“Can I help you?” I pray that being professional and aloof will hurry up whatever this is. Maybe he really is here to see a movie. By himself. In the middle of the day. His smile grows wider, showing bright white teeth all in a perfect row.

 

“Yeah, I just wanted to see if I could buy you some dinner after work. I read your story. It was a real page turner,” he winks at me, “and I want to give you my thoughts on it.”

 

“Oh,” comes out as a squeak, but I cover it quickly with, “I already have plans, but you can leave comments in the doc. I probably won’t be able to get to them until late.”

 

“I don’t want to leave them in the doc. I’m more of an _in person_ kind of guy.” He leans over, elbows on the counter, his face so close to the glass his breath creates a light circle of fog. One of his eyebrows raises in an assumptive way and it makes the fake cheese from the nachos I had at lunch curdle. He tries again. “What about tomorrow?”

 

“Ummmm-”

 

“Come on, Everdeen, don’t make me beg.” He winks again.

 

“I really can’t tonight or tomorrow. I’m sorry.” I hold my hands up and shrug while silently praying for this to please be over.

 

“Damn, girl,” he replies, and I catch a sliver of annoyance in his tone. Then one side of his lip curls up. “You’re making it hard.” He winks for a third time and I’m starting to think maybe he has something in his eye. But no, he read my story. My very dirty, very private, should have only been read by my professor story.

 

“How about I drive you to wherever you’re going after work? I know you don’t have a car.” The way he says it gives me this feeling in my gut. Like I should watch out for myself. I freak out inside. An imaginary mallet strikes the lever on my panic meter and the puck goes straight through the bell. So I lie. Anything to get him to leave, and that’s giving him a ‘yes.’

 

“Yeah, okay. I get off at eleven.” Not true. I get off two hours earlier. I can’t look him in the eyes through the deception. I’ve never been good at lying, so I stare at my computer screen and click the mouse a few times to make it look like I’m working, then say casually, only glancing up once, “But you don’t have to wait around. Just come back later.”

 

He taps his fingers on the counter twice and a huge smile overtakes his face. A sign of victory, I suppose. If it weren’t for his cold eyes, he might seem harmless. Or at least not as intimidating as he does. “You got it, Babe,” he calls out as he walks away.

 

A shiver rips its way through my spine. _Babe_. I can’t wait to get out of here.

 

By 8:30 I’ve kept a running total of the cash I’ve exchanged tickets for and cleaned my area three times to make sure I can walk out the door by 9:01. I want as much time between myself and Cato’s arrival as I can possibly get. My hands tremble a little more with every minute that ticks by. I swear my bottom lip is going to be one giant bruise tomorrow morning from how hard I’ve been biting down on it. My stomach is twisted into fifty knots. And counting.

 

The door to the box office pops open and my boss leans his head in, irritation in his voice and a snarl on his lips as he tells me, “Bristel called in. I need you to close tonight.”

 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just slams the door, the sound of it reverberating through my ears, settling in my stomach as a boulder, flattening all those knots. When it’s gone, I’m left in complete silence. A needle could drop in a haystack and I’d hear it. I stare at the door knob, feeling like if I tried to turn it I’d find myself locked in. And with only a small opening in the bullet proof glass, there’s no other way out.

 

My heart beats faster and within moments I feel beads of sweat on my forehead. This can’t be happening. I told him to come back! And now I have to stay? _Fuck!_

 

No.

 

I can’t stay.

 

I _won’t_ stay.

 

The walls start to close in. I need air. This place is feeling more like a tomb that wants to swallow me up rather than four walls designed to keep people out.

 

I’m not supposed to leave the box office unattended, but I don’t care much about it right now. I need to tell my boss I can’t stay late. Fear is eating away at my insides, trying to keep me rooted in place and bolt out the door at the same time. I peel my leaden feet from the floor and choose the latter.

 

On my way to Marv’s office, I throw a quick prayer up, promising I’ll never lie again if I can somehow get out of this. Begging a higher power for him to have mercy on me. I start coming up with a list of good deeds, like working in soup kitchens every holiday or reading to underprivileged kids at the public library. I could volunteer at the old folks home on the weekends. I’ll do anything.

 

I shouldn’t have to, though. I’m a good worker. I come in early and leave late. I do my job, going over and above to make sure I’m never written up or give anyone a reason to think I’m slacking off. I’m his best worker. He’ll understand. Or not. He’s kind of a douchewaffle.

 

I rap my knuckles on his door, my fear waning some in the face of the confidence I’ve built in my work performance.

 

“Come in,” he hollers. “Yeah?” he barks when he sees me. He’s extra cranky tonight.

 

“About closing, I-”

 

“I need you, Everdeen. You know we don’t keep a big staff on Wednesdays. Take it up with Bristel the next time she’s in.”

 

I stop just short of whining, even though I really want to. “But, I _can’t_ stay.”

 

“Look, I’m in a bind and you’re my go-to girl.” He sighs, as if deciding whether or not to say something that’s on his mind. “I’ll be needing an AM soon and I was thinking of recommending you for the position. It’d come with a significant pay raise and get you out of that box. Just say you’ll do it and the job is yours.”

 

Huh. I did not see that coming. I should have told him ‘no’ months ago. I’m about to graduate college, and while I’ll be looking for work in my field, I also know it could be weeks or even months before I find something. I could really use the raise.

 

I set both options on the scale - weighing them out against each other. On one side - Cato. But more money. On the other - hiding out from him at my place. He may even know where I live. He knows I don’t have a car. Would avoiding him now help me? He’ll probably come back anyway and I’ll have to deal with him another time. He’s been persistent in making me feel uncomfortable for the last few months. I think it’s about time I told him to back off.

 

“Fine,” I answer Marv with the same snarl he gave me earlier. “But you better not be screwing with me.” I close the door harder than I meant to, but maybe that will seal my point with him. I’ve never spoken to my boss like that, but only one thought is at the forefront of my mind as I return to the box - I need Peeta. He should be here to hear Cato’s thoughts, too. He wrote half the story and edited most of it.

 

I enter the tiny cubicle, no less nervous about Cato, but I do have an idea of what I’ll be buying as soon as I get my raise - a cell phone. And Peeta’s number will be speed dial numero uno.

 

I glance at the dingy, white phone hanging on the wall of the tiny room. I could use it, but the one person I need to call right now is unreachable because I don’t have his number.

 

_The doc!_ I bounce on my toes a few times in relief before springing into action. Employees aren’t supposed to be on the internet with work computers, but I’m desperate to reach Peeta. If Marv finds out I’ll get written up and my record won’t be so perfect anymore, but I don’t think too hard on it. I log in to my google account and click on my gmail, sending off a quick email to get Peeta online. Then I open hangouts and the doc, and wait.

 

And wait.

 

And wait some more.

 

A line starts to form for the late shows. It’s not long, but it takes my attention away from the screen. A few people trickle up to the window, but it dies down as it approaches ten o’clock. Peeta still hasn’t gotten online. My stomach turns over a few times. 52 minutes and 36 seconds left if Cato doesn’t show up early.

 

At 10:15, it’s time to close the box office and help clean up the concession area. I have to log off the computer, but before I do I send a message through hangouts, hoping with everything in me that he gets it and comes, but trying not to put all my eggs in that basket. I may actually have to do this myself. Which is fine. Totally fine. I’m a big girl.

 

_Can you come by the theater around 10:45?_

 

I add ‘please’ to the end, hoping he realizes that’s me begging.

 

I shut the lights out. I’m about to leave when I spot a figure in the far corner of the parking lot, leaning against the hood of a red car, arms folded while he checks his phone. Goosebumps pepper my skin and my mouth dries up instantly.

 

Cato is here. And he’s so early that I wonder if he even went home.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scared yet? Talk to me! Pbg


	8. Chapter 8

At the sight of Cato on the property, my rational thought process shuts down. I can’t think of another plan if Peeta doesn’t show. I can walk out with the other three employees here, but beyond that? I scold myself for not telling him that I’m seeing Peeta and that he wouldn’t be okay with another guy driving me home. Seems like my thought process shut down hours ago.

 

If I was teetering on the edge of the fear cliff, that definitely sends me over. I am so not used to the boyfriend/girlfriend thing. I can’t let Cato buy me dinner or drive me home or any of the other things he so grossly ‘suggested’, not only because I don’t want to, but because it would upset Peeta. I remember how angry he got when I left his place that first night, and we were barely even friends then. He would wonder why I didn’t ask him to come get me. I did, technically - as an afterthought - but far too late in the game to expect him to show up.

 

Would Cato even believe that I have a boyfriend now? He might think I’m just trying to get rid of him. The thought of an angry blonde hulk does nothing to settle my nerves.

 

The concession area is spotless when I’m done and I consider letting Marv lock me in and staying the night. Or at the very least, waiting Cato out.

 

“Locking up,” the boss calls to the rest of us. I guess it's too late for that idea. I grab my things and chew on my bottom lip while we walk, preparing the speech I’m going to unload on Cato.

 

Sure enough, he’s waiting at the curb when we walk out the doors, hands in his pockets, toeing something on the ground with his shoe. He looks normal enough. But then he looks up at me and I find myself wishing those blue eyes were set in a different face. A face with a kind smile and warm eyes. Someone a little shorter with ashy blonde waves falling across his forehead instead of spikes of platinum blonde.

 

“You ready?” he asks. I take my time walking towards him after my tiny group of safety disperses to their own modes of transportation. No one said goodbye or asked if I’d be okay. They never have, and I normally don’t mind, but tonight I wish things were a different.

 

I raise one finger. “Actually, I-”

 

“Oh, come on, Everdeen,” he huffs like a temperamental child, hands going up then down in exasperation, slapping his massive thighs. “Don’t tell me you changed your mind after I came all the way back here. It’s just a ride and some conversation.”

 

Both things I’m worried about.

 

He crosses his arms over his chest in determination. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not a bad guy?”

 

 _You can’t_ , I think, wanting to say something about having to change his name to Peeta, brighten his eye color, shrink a few inches and learn how to look at me without making me feel skeezy - all things that are impossible for him - but instead I say, “I don’t think you’re a bad guy. You’re just not the guy for me.”

 

His face screws up in irritation at being rejected - I guess it doesn’t happen often enough - and it’s almost funny to watch. _Almost._ If I weren’t standing out here in the dark with someone three times my size that makes my skin want to turn itself inside out just so it can hide.

 

“I think you should find out before you judge, Everdeen,” he replies with some irritability. Then the side of his mouth lifts in a coy smile that makes my stomach turn. “You know, this whole semester I thought you were a frigid, stuck up prude, but after reading your story I’m starting to think there’s a little kink inside you trying to get out. You just need the right partner.” He takes a step closer and the hairs on the back of my neck raise like a cat cornered by a much larger dog.

 

My eyes flash to headlights that illuminate the area and I see Peeta’s Jeep start to cross the parking lot diagonally. Praise the Heavens! My heart skips a beat and my fear shrinks, relief and gratefulness ballooning in its place.

 

I know the minute he sees Cato because I hear the engine rev and the Jeep speeds up, stopping right in front of the curb. Peeta hops out and walks to me casually but quickly, casting a frosty glance at Cato.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, stopping at my side. He doesn’t put his arm around me or anything possessive, but Cato’s eyes narrow at us anyway, making me think he’s using that pea-sized brain. Hopefully doing some easy math - one plus one makes a couple.

 

“What’s up?” Peeta asks nonchalantly.

 

“Cato wants to give us a personal review of our story,” I inform him, stepping into his side just a hair more.

 

“Can we do it tomorrow, man? I’m beat and I gotta get my girl home.” Peeta puts his hand on the small of my back and starts guiding me to his still-running Jeep. He opens the door and calls over his shoulder at Cato, “You’ve got my number.”

 

He shuts the door and I watch him walk around the front of the car. He stops and turns back to Cato, who’s saying something to him. I can’t make out what it is, but Peeta answers back. There’s an exchange. It doesn’t look heated or necessarily unfriendly, but when it’s over Peeta hops in and slams the door hard enough to make me think something Cato said has upset him.

 

He shoves the stick shift into first and peels out, yanking the Jeep around and heading towards the exit. He’s definitely peeved. I’m not sure if I want to ask him about it. He stays silent on the short drive. It’s uncomfortable, but when he passes the turn to my place I finally speak up.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“My house.” His response is clipped. His jaw is clenched. A muscle in the side of his cheek ticks like the second hand on a clock. I’m starting to wonder if it’s me he’s mad at. I can’t fathom the reason why. Cato was the one approaching me, not the other way around.

 

We pull up in his driveway and I can’t stand the silence anymore. “Did _I_ do something?”

 

He gets out without answering and swiftly walks to my side of the car, opening the door. I slide out. He gives me a cursory glance, taking my bag for me. His behavior is starting to piss me off. I deserve to know what Cato said to him, especially if he’s going to take it out on me.

 

He unlocks the door to his duplex and waits by it, intending for me to enter first, I guess. I don’t. I stand there in defiance, waiting for him to catch on that I’m not going to just do what he says without an explanation of what’s going on, why he’s so angry with me.

 

He sighs heavily, understanding what I’m doing without me having to say a word. The muscle in his jaw continues to tick as he grinds his teeth together. It’s got to be five minutes worth of jaw workout.

 

We’ve been a real couple for all of two days and we’re about to have our first fight. I can feel it. The tension swirling around is not the kind I’ve been used to feeling around him lately.

 

“Will you please go inside?” he asks patiently, no trace of the stress that’s radiating from his body language in his tone. I wonder if that was as difficult for him as it would be for me. I decide if he can ask nicely, then I can reciprocate. Besides, whatever we’re going to talk about probably doesn’t need to happen outside.

 

I breeze by him, taking a seat on the sofa where it all started. Peeta sits across from me, not next to me, and it feels like rejection. It hurts.

 

“What was Cato doing there?”

 

“I told you, he wanted to talk about the story.” I’m a little sore that he’s questioning me. “Why are you mad about that? I didn’t ask him to come, you know. He just showed up. I’m not his keeper. I can’t tell him where to be and not to be.” I cross my arms defensively.

 

“I get that, but you didn’t tell him we’re together. _That’s_ what he told me. That he had no idea, _and_ that you told him to come back when you got off work to give you a ride home. And you send me a message to come get you, even though you asked him to? I just don’t understand, Katniss. And I really, _really_ want to.”

 

He shrugs, looking wounded. Part of me wants to wipe it away while the other part wants to defend myself. Choosing the second option, my hands go up in frustration.

 

“I told him to come back at eleven because I was supposed to get off at nine. I would have been long gone by the time he got there _but_ , as my luck would have it, I ended up having to close. So it backfired on me.” I let my hands fall to my sides, a hard slap on the soft couch.

 

Peeta processes the information, his tension melting a little, until I say, “Besides, he’s been pestering me for weeks now. It almost doesn’t surprise me that he showed up like that.”

 

“He’s been what?” Peeta’s voice is even and low. Eerily calm. Eyes unblinking.

 

“He’s been… kind of harassing me. About the story. Making comments and stuff. That’s why I was freaked out about partnering up with him.”

 

“Why didn’t you say something? God, Katniss!” He half-shouts, running both hands through his hair, pulling so hard I think he’s going to lose a patch of blonde to his own strength. “I would _never_ have let him partner with us. I would have told him to go fuck himself!”

 

My eyebrows fly up to my hairline. I’ve never heard him say anything like that at all. Peeta Mellark doesn’t say ugly things to people. He’s kind and caring. Not angry and vulgar.

 

“Hell, I would have taken a lower score to keep him away,”  he adds, finally letting his hands drop tiredly to his lap.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to tell you. I figured, you know, he’d just take the hint. I kept running away and ignoring him…”

 

He sighs. “It’s not your fault. Guys like him don’t take hints easily.”

 

“How do you know?” I ask, curious about what insight he might have into ‘ _guys like him’_.

 

His shoulders drop and a pained look crosses his face. “My cousin was a sophomore when I was a freshman.”

 

Madge. I remember her vaguely. She was a year ahead of us in high school. The female version of Peeta. Practically perfect in every way. Smart, outgoing, conventionally beautiful. President of everything. I remember she got a scholarship as well, to a different school, but I haven’t thought about her in years until now.

 

“She went to a party. This guy that had been after her for weeks finally saw his chance. He got handsy and when things were going too far she said no. He backed off, but the next thing she knew, she was being led to a room because she was too drunk to drive home, even though she’d only had two drinks. He had to have slipped something into that second drink. Anyway, the next morning she woke up with her clothing ripped off, laying on top of a pile of coats. Ten months later she had a son.”

 

My eyes are about to pop out of my head. I had no idea. “Did she go to the police?”

 

Peeta shakes his head slowly, his expression sad. “By the time she came to grips with what happened, it was two months later, and she doesn’t remember much about that night. She says it could have been anyone. She doesn’t even remember a shadow of a profile she was so out of it, but she dropped out and went home to her parents and they took care of her.”

 

“What about a paternity test?” I’m surprised and a lot disappointed no action was taken. People who do wrong should pay for their crimes, but Peeta just shakes his head again, defeated.

 

“She doesn’t want the father, whoever he may be, to be involved. Doesn’t want her son to have a rapist for a dad. They’re better off without him, and after she explained that to me, I got it. Still pissed as fuck, but I got it.” This is absolutely the wrong time to notice, but it’s so odd to hear him use that word I can’t help it. I find myself not hating his potty mouth.

 

“Something unfortunate happened to her, with a consequence that she now loves and protects with her life, and part of that protection is shielding him from a horrible dad.” He breathes deep and waves it off. “Besides, she’s seeing a great guy who loves Jaden and she’s happy now, but Madge’s current life isn’t the point, Kantiss. The point is…” he pauses, his shoulders visibly sagging with weight, “it could have been you tonight.”

 

He hits me with a pointed look. It goes straight to my gut. The same fear I felt when I saw Cato comes roaring back.

 

“And as much as it angered me when I found out my cousin was raped…” he trails off for a second. His jaw starts ticking again and there’s a hint of something in his eyes that looks like rage. “I couldn’t handle it if it were you. If he put his hands on you, I’d go insane. Just knowing that he’s even thought about you is making me crazy.”

 

He stands with renewed vigor and paces to the far wall. “That _he_ has read _our_ story?” He knocks a clenched fist into it before he turns around to face me. His eyes are wild, cheeks and neck splotchy red, chest heaving angrily. “I told him to talk to _me_ about it and he sought _you_ out. You. Not me. I gave him my information and he found you at work. Waited for _you_ to get off so he could be alone with you.”

 

My mouth hangs open like a gaping fish. His words and behavior, along with the revelation of Madge’s story sinks in faster than a rock through water, hitting bottom with a thud. I think I’m going to be sick and close my eyes to will the nausea away. I breathe deep a time or two, stick my head between my legs, calming the nerves and trying not to think about what could have happened if Peeta hadn’t shown up. I could have been Madge 2.0.

 

Hands land gently on my shoulders, lifting my torso upright, then move to my thighs. When I open my eyes Peeta is kneeling in front of me. His imploring gaze stabs at my heart and I want to wipe the worry from his sky-blue eyes.

 

I remember to address his other concern before we move on because, yes, I realized too late that I should have told Cato I was with Peeta. “And no, I didn’t tell him about you but not because I didn’t want to. I just forgot.” I quickly realize how that sounds, Peeta’s expression confirming I’m right, and ramble on, “Not like I forgot _you_. I’m just used to being single. Independent. It didn’t cross my mind to mention you as a way to get him to back off, that’s all. And when I did think of it, it was too late. I tried to reach you, but Hangouts was really my only option since I don’t have a phone.”

 

The last few words sound pouty to my own ears, but the previous hours have drained me. I want nothing more than to collapse on the couch and go to sleep with Peeta next to me. I don’t want to argue. I lean back on the cushions and close my eyes.

 

I'm so tired I don’t even crack one open when he squeezes my thighs and says, “I want to go down and get you a phone first thing tomorrow.”

 

“Not in the budget right now,” I say, a deep breath leaving me, my head still relaxed on the back of the couch.

 

“I’m paying for it.”

 

“What? No!” I deflect the offer immediately, my head shooting up so fast I feel dizzy. There’s no way I’m letting him buy a cell phone and pay for the monthly plan. I’ve looked into those things and they’re expensive. It’ll just have to wait. “You can’t do that, Peeta.”

 

“I can,” he grinds through his teeth. I sense he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He runs a shaky hand through his already disheveled hair and his chest expands and deflates with  exasperation. “You _need_ one. Especially when you’re walking home late at night. Katniss, if something happened to you and I-” I put my finger to his lips to silence him.

 

“I’ve made it four years without a cell phone. I can make it a little longer, Peeta. I’m about to get a raise. I’ll get one then.” My words are not reassuring to him.

 

He talks over my finger muzzle. “And between now and then? If something happens?” If our conversation weren’t so serious, I’d laugh. I remove my finger to avoid the temptation, and lower my voice so he knows I’m serious about this, too.

 

“It won’t. I’ll be more careful. I’ll tell Cato to fuck off.” I give him a half smile he doesn’t return. His eyes are still full of worry.

 

“Do you remember the other night when I was sick? And I was going to take you home and you told me no, that I was too sick to drive. And then you stayed and took care of me?”

 

I nod, glancing down at my lap. I feel like a tool. He’s only trying to help me.

 

“We’re the same, you and me. We protect what we care about - each other. And it would mean the world to me if you would allow me, your _boyfriend_ ,” he ducks his head to find my eyes, his face finally brightening a little and sucking me into his request, “to get you a cell phone.”

 

He does makes a good point. And it’s not that I’ve never thought of having one. I just didn’t really _need_ one until now. And if having one makes Peeta feel better, then I should do it. Damn. How does he get me to change my mind so easily? If he weren’t so angelic I’d think he had the persuasion of the devil in him. He could definitely use his power for evil if he put his mind to it.

 

“Okay,” I relent, but only because of the ‘we protect each other’ part - at least that’s what I tell myself - and then point my finger at him, “but it has to be a cheap phone! Nothing state of the art. A flip phone, even.”  
  


He snorts, grabbing my finger and biting the tip playfully. I don’t know if he meant it to affect me, but it sends a zing straight to my lower belly. “They don’t even make those anymore,” he says.

 

“A used one then. Whatever’s the least expensive. You’re not my sugar daddy.”

 

He quirks and eyebrow as he sits next to me on the couch. “I know someone looking to get rid of an old one and it’s only $10 a month to add a line to my plan. Problem solved. Besides, I would never dream of being your sugar daddy. Your independence is one of the things I like most about you.”

 

His arms wind around my waist and he tugs me into his lap. I find myself in the exact same position as the first time I was here - face to face, one leg on either side of his thighs, only this time I know what to do.

 

I scoot up a little until our centers are aligned and Peeta sucks in a sharp breath. He leans his head back, eyes close, opening again halfway. I watch them dim from the color of vibrant, noon skies to shades of midnight.

I place my hands against the couch cushions on either side of his head and stare down at him, deciding what to kiss first. His lips are at the top of the list - soft, plump, inviting. His perfectly pert nose with the slightest dash of freckles across the bridge. His cheeks - still ruddy from his earlier outburst. Even his ears are attractive.

 

I tip his head to the side with one finger after I decide to start there, at the base of his ear, and work my lips along his jaw to the adorable cleft in his chin. His hands glide leisurely up and down my thighs. He stills when my tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, testing the waters of what he likes. I press my open mouth against his and suck his bottom lip in, tugging on it as I retreat. His hands tighten on my thighs, then move up to my hips. Fingertips pressing into my flesh.

 

I rake one hand through his hair, watching him. Waiting to see what he’ll do.

 

He’s patient, watching me right back.

 

When I can’t take his stare anymore, I lean in and brush my lips against his. A sigh escapes us both, warm breath mingling between us. There’s a cool dampness in the fabric between my legs that alerts me to the fact that, in my effort to turn him on, I’ve done it to myself.

 

His hands wander up my back, slow and torturous as we kiss unhurriedly. Fingers reach the nape of my neck and massage their way into my hair, pressing us closer. His tongue parts my lips, entering, tangling with mine. In no time at all our bodies are doing that thing again - writhing against each other. My body is heating up quickly. I know he said we’d go slow, but I’m not so sure I want to now.

 

“Peeta?” I ask in between long, luscious kisses. His response is a low moan that I feel in my chest.

 

“Do you have… you know?” He breaks away just a hair, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. His hair is a mess from my hands and his mouth is pink all over. My eyes stray to the top button of his shirt, undone. To busy myself, because I feel silly asking him to have sex with me already, I focus on getting the second button through the hole. My fingers fumble at first, but then I get it and move to the third. By the time I’m at the last button and push the fabric aside, his chest is rising and falling rapidly.

 

When I look up at him, he looks so serious, not a trace of humor to be found. “You want to…” he trails off, one eyebrow hooking up in question. He swallows visibly, and I pull my lower lip between my teeth and bite down, looking at him. I feel completely vulnerable. All my feelings exposed.

 

His eyes drift to my mouth and he uses his thumb to release my lip from the death grip my teeth have on it.

 

“It’s completely up to you. I won’t do anything you’re not okay with.” He brushes back a few strands of hair, cupping the side of my face, making sure our eyes meet before he says, “Got it?”

 

I nod my head, nerves settling in now that I’ve decided we’re doing this. “H-have you… ever?” I can’t look at him when I ask if he’s done this before, so I glance off to the side. A large part of me is sure he has, but there’s a slim part that hopes he hasn’t. Doesn’t want him to have done this with anyone else. Selfish? Maybe. Insecure? Definitely.

 

He touches my chin with his fingertip, guiding our eyes to meet. He nods hesitantly, and if I’m reading him right, there’s remorse etched in the downturn of his lips and the crease in his forehead.

 

“I wish I hadn’t. I wish you were my first, Katniss.” He pulls me down and gives me the softest, sweetest kiss, almost an apology, whispering, “My only,” when he’s through. Our heads rest against each other, and while my stomach bobs a little, it doesn’t sink entirely. Even though I’ll never be ‘his only’, I can be his now. His future. His last, even.

 

I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. I want to tell myself to shut up, but the way he’s looking at me, it’s as if he’s reading and consenting to my every thought - that we aren’t just a here and now thing.

 

It’s what compels me to rise from his lap and hold my hand out to him. He takes it, stands and follows me into his bedroom, where we undress before each other. His eyes devour every inch of flesh I expose to him. Mine do the same, hungry for anything he’ll give me.

 

I sit on the bed, crawling backwards until I’m in the middle, and lay back while he reaches into the drawer of his nightstand, for the condom I assume. I watch, even though I’m a little embarrassed by our nakedness. I won’t let it keep me from experiencing something amazing with him.

 

“Wait-” I say, reaching for his arm, and he halts immediately, eyes swinging to mine.

 

“Yes?” In that one word I can sense that he fully expects me to turn this in a different direction. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I can also see in his expression that he’d be totally okay with waiting if I asked. But I’m not going to make him, or myself, wait tonight.

 

“Would you want to… um... “ I close my eyes tight. Shyness taking over.

 

“It’s okay. Just ask. Whatever you want,” he soothes my nerves with a voice that coats like warm oil.

 

“Will you, go down on me?” After reading a few articles on the subject, I’m more than a little curious about it. And there’s no one I trust more than him to be honest with me. If he doesn’t want to, then we’ll just move on.

 

He tosses the unopened condom on the bed next to me and walks to the end of the bed. “There is _literally_ nothing I’d rather do in this entire world.” His hands finger my toes as his lip curls up deliciously to one side. He sweeps his hands lightly up my shins, then dips around my knees and yanks me to the end of the bed. I squeal at his growing smile and the feeling that I’m about to be his next meal.

 

I’m a bit nervous so I try for something lighthearted. “ _Nothing?_ ” I mock with feigned innocence. An innocence I’m quickly letting go of.

 

“Ask me that question after I’m done, Smartass.” I finally let go and chuckle at his language, but he promptly shuts me up when his nose brushes my center. A groan starts, turning to a high pitched shriek when his tongue licks straight up my slit, flicking the little nub when he gets there.

 

“Oh, _fuck. Me,_ ” I moan as my hips raise into his face. _More. Of that. Please, God!_

 

“We’re getting there,” he answers with an amused grunt. He doesn’t utter another word. He’s too busy using his tongue to make me a writhing, boneless mess. When I feel it building, I put my hands on my breasts. He lets out a groan alongside my repeated cries of “Don’t stop!”

 

When I finally topple over the peak, my thighs squeeze together so tight Peeta has to pry them from around his head. I’m panting, exhausted, when he crawls on top of me, the mattress dipping with his weight. I open one eye lazily, too tired to make the other obey.

 

“So?” he asks with a wry grin. A grin I will wear very soon. Every oral article I read mentioned reciprocation, and while I haven’t a clue what I’m doing other than putting my mouth on it, the males that gave their opinion frequently said there’s not a lot of wrong ways to do that, and they love it when a girl goes down on them even if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

 

“Your turn.” I push him over and, while it takes effort to get my body to comply, I’m on top of him quickly, staring down at his wide eyes.

 

“You? Want to… do that?” I half-smirk, still deliciously dazed from my orgasm. Someone lost their ability to use words.

 

I acknowledge his question by taking his erection in my hand, smoothing it up and down, getting a picture in my head for what to do. I test the feel of his hard, silky flesh with a lick to the tip. He hisses, but I know that’s not a bad thing. It spurs me to take more of it in my mouth. Just half, since I read about gagging and want to ease myself into this, not embarrass myself in front of him.

 

I come back up, and dip down, getting in a rhythm that has him breathing heavy and raising his hips slightly into my mouth a few times. I can tell by the way he’s fisting his sheets that he’s trying not to. It’s more of a turn on than I thought it would be and I find myself wanting to do more, so I focus on the patch of hair at the base and try to make my lips reach all the way. The tip of his cock touches the back of my throat, but I haven’t gotten all the way there yet. I’m determined to make him feel as good as he made me. On the next pass I open my jaw and take as much of him in as I can and just when I’ve almost made it he pushes me off.

 

“Stop. You have to stop,” he pants.

 

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my heart leaping to my throat. “Was it bad?” _Shit._ I almost don’t want to hear the answer. I feel like diving under the covers and hiding until he goes to sleep, then slinking back to my place.

 

“God, no. It was amazing. But if you want to have sex then you have to stop or I won’t be able to right away.”

 

He pulls me down to kiss me, then flips me to my back. His hand begins to run over my body, starting at my lips, down my neck to my chest. Circling one nipple, then the other, blazing a trail to my belly button and lower. He traces the creases of my inner thighs, then pushes one leg to the side.

 

“You are so beautiful.” The reverence in his tone is unmistakable. Every syllable of his words hold some underlying secret. A secret that will be just between us. “And I really want to be inside you tonight. That is, if you still want to?” he asks, his gaze fastened to mine as he slips the condom on, waiting for my answer.

 

Had I had these experiences before, I never would have had the writer’s block that plagued me in the story. The things he says, the way he looks at me, protects me, gives me so much promise. I know I’m ready.

 

I bring his lips to mine and before I kiss him, I whisper, “Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story! I hope you enjoyed every word and will stick around for the next one. If you haven't seen it, it's called Fuckbuddies and you can find the first two chapters on my Tumblr. I will post here soon. Thanks to Burkygirl and Xerxia for all their hardwork, and to Katnissdoesnotfollowback for having a birthday and then betaing the last 3 chapters as well. (Really, she was just whiny and wanted to read and I had mercy on her.) Just kidding! She's going to kill me for saying that. Lol. Talk to me!! What did you think of the final chapter? Love, Pbg

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday four times over to Katnissdoesnotfollowback! Comments welcome! Pbg


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